Désert
by AvalonCelticQueen
Summary: Six months ago, the identity of the Chesapeake Ripper, and the true extent of his crimes, was discovered by the FBI. In desperation, he went on the run, and Jack Crawford lost all trace of him. Special Agent Will Graham began to try rebuild his life after the discovery, receiving treatment for the encephalitis and slowly recovering. Until Dr Hannibal Lecter returns.
1. Chapter 1

_**Essentially, this fic gives an alternate ending to Season 1. Hannibal planned to set Will up, and killed Abigail, but was discovered by the FBI before he had chance to truly frame Will. So, he went on the run from Jack Crawford. This fic begins six months later, when Hannibal returns to Will's house to ask for help, and how Will adapts to having the Chesapeake Ripper, as well as Hannibal, back in his life.**_

**Désert**

The sun was hanging limply in the sky as Will Graham drove slowly up to his house. He frowned as he turned off his engine, the noise of his strays' howling audible even over his car, louder in the quiet. Something must have agitated them, he wondered if maybe someone had called while he'd been out. Though he couldn't think who would.

He climbed out, taking the paper bags from the back seat, heavy with the shopping he'd just brought. The shop had been long overdue; he'd just been unable to face company before. He'd take the dogs out, and then put it away. Maybe he could cook himself something. Anything but the tinned crap he'd been living on for the past few weeks. _Or was it months? _Either way, proper food would make a welcome change.

He wrestled with the bags as he tried to slot his keys into the door. From within, the dogs barked louder.

'Guys, it's just me. I'm home again now. Give me a minute...' He stopped as the door pushed open at the slightest pressure under his fingertips. 'Ah, shit.'

He went to put the bags on the floor, when he stopped himself. Maybe he'd forgotten to lock up. That would explain it. The door wasn't damaged at all, no signs of forced entry anywhere on the wood. Besides, what would any thief hope to gain from driving this far out and breaking in to his house? All anyone had to do was see the exterior to realise there was nothing within worth the effort of stealing. No, he must have forgotten to lock up, and maybe one of the dogs got out. That would be enough to agitate the others.

With a shake of the head and a slight chuckle, he pushed the door open completely and walked in, expecting the greeting of his strays. Except they were all crowded around the chair opposite the door, where a figure sat, staring directly at Will and he felt his breath knocked from him as their eyes met. The bags fell from his hands.

'You.'

* * *

He had never expected to see Dr Hannibal Lecter again. The thought had crossed his mind a few times in the first few weeks, but it had been six months now, and nothing. Without his permission, his mind flicked back to their last meeting. It had been at Lecter's house, maybe a therapy session, maybe just a social call. They seemed to blend into each other after a while. Every social call ended in therapy. Every therapy session ended in conversation. Lecter had given nothing away, nothing unusual. Then, the following day, Will had received a phone call. They'd found the Chesapeake Ripper. Jack was coming over to drive him to the Ripper's house. When they pulled up outside Lecter's house, Will had assumed they were merely calling for the doctor too. But Jack left the car, called Will out.

And then he knew.

He could never have guessed the true extent of the doctor's crimes, however. The body parts that littered the fridge and freezer, all of which were positively ID'd as human. All victims of the Ripper's latest killing spree. The drawings in his study, detailing each murder in soft granite and careful strokes. The plastic suit in the wardrobe, covered in blood from the last death. Will was the only agent who was still relatively unaffected by this point. Jack had been sick after the fridge, when he realised just what Hannibal had been feeding him for months. Will, however, couldn't tell if he was apathetic or merely not truly seeing the scenes around him. The basement changed that. He'd descended the stone steps in darkness, feeling around for the light switch. He found it, only to be met with Abigail's glassy stare from a wooden chair in the centre of the room, her throat slit jaggedly, a look of pure horror frozen on her face. That's when he'd fainted.

* * *

'Will? Are you alright, Will?'

The slightly raspy, probably from disuse, voice of Dr Lecter brought Will back into the present, yet could not erase the last image of Abigail Hobbs from the agent's mind.

'What are you doing here...? How did you get...? Get out! No. Get out!'

'Will, let me help you.' Hannibal ignored all of Will's jumbled questions and demands, and gestured to the shopping that littered the floor. He began to rise from the chair, going to help.

'Stay in the fucking chair, Lecter.' The agent reached round to the back pocket of his jeans and the doctor expected to find a gun pointed at his head. Instead, he was met with Will's cell phone. 'I have Jack Crawford on speed dial. One move from you and he's over here before you can do anything.'

'You don't have Jack Crawford on speed dial, Will. I doubt you've spoken to Jack in months.'

The flicker of a frustrated frown across Graham's face told Hannibal he was right. 'Fine. But I do have Alana Bloom on speed dial.'

It was a poor threat, something both the doctor and the agent were aware of. But it was enough to keep Hannibal seated, while Will bent down and began picking the food from the floor, his gaze flicking between the objects in his hands and the man watching him intently. From the chair, Hannibal could see Will's mouth moving, his lips forming silent words.

_'My name is Will Graham. It's 12.57, and I'm in Wolf Trap, Virginia. My name is Will Graham. It's 12.57, and I'm in Wolf...'_

He stopped when he saw Lecter's piercing dark eyes, almost reflected red in the light, focused on him. There was almost a smile perched on the doctor's face, and that made Will's blood boil further.

'I trust you've received medical treatment for the encephalitis?'

'You knew, then?' Will scoffed, his eyes narrowed in pure anger. 'Of course you did. You saw it on the CT scan, didn't you?'

'I'm sorry for ever keeping it from you.'

'You're sorry from keeping that from me? Ha.' Hesitantly, almost, Graham stood up straight and took a couple of steps towards the seated figure of his psychiatrist. Hannibal could see him shaking, as if the act of keeping the anger from his voice was physically too exhausting. 'Is that all you're sorry for, Dr Lecter? How about manipulating me, manipulating the entire FBI? How about trying to set me up as the copycat killer?'

'You found the lures?'

'Of course I found the fucking lures. The FBI combed my home for weeks, dragging me from one interview to another. They nearly arrested me anyway, despite the evidence against you.' He was furious now, his vocal dynamic rising to a shout, louder than Hannibal had ever heard him. Louder than Will had ever believed himself capable of. It felt like release. 'How about you apologise for being the fucking copycat killer? Or the Chesapeake Ripper? Which do you prefer? Maybe you could also apologise for being some lying, cannibalistic murderer?'

'Will...'

'HOW ABOUT YOU APOLOGISE FOR SLITTING ABIGAIL HOBBS' THROAT? OR IS THAT TOO BANAL FOR YOU?'

'Will, please...' He went to stand from the chair, to try calm the man before him, whose cheeks were wet from the white hot tears that were spilling from his eyes. But at the sight of the doctor's movement, Will backed away, until he had his back against the shut door, his phone pointed in his hand as though it were a gun. He almost wished it were.

'Don't move. You take one step, I phone the police. And, this time, you will not get away, I promise you.'

'Please don't. Don't do that, Will.' Hannibal stopped moving, and lowered himself slowly back into the chair beneath him. 'You can't call anyone. They'll lock me with the criminally insane, Will.'

'You are insane. You're sick. You've always been the sick one.'

'I'm not sick, Will, you must know. You understood the copycat. The Ripper. You understood them. Me.' He was flustered, more so than Will had ever seen him. In all the scenarios he'd played out in his mind of meeting Hannibal again, he'd never imagined the doctor to be in such a panic.

'I could never see the Ripper's mind. I could never see your mind. The FBI asked me to, after they cleared me, but you were too close. Always too close...'

'Will.'

'Did it ever mean anything to you? Did any of it matter to you? Or was I just a little pawn in your game with Jack Crawford? He took me to crime scenes, while you took me to bed, was that it? Did anything you did...anything we did, matter? Did you mean anything you said? Or did you just say it all to get me on side, to put you above suspicion in my eyes?' This was more how he had imagined their meeting, more emotional, more vulnerable. Except, he didn't feel vulnerable. He just felt angry.

'I didn't need you on side, Will. I wasn't playing games with Jack, not with you. It mattered to me, it all mattered. You mattered. You still matter. I meant it all. My dear Will...' He went to stand once more, as if hoping his words had disarmed the agent. He was disappointed.

'Sit down, Lecter.' Will was feeling behind him with his free hand for the door handle, pulling it open as he edged around it. 'I need to go. If you've moved even a fucking inch when I come back, you'll be lucky if I only hand you over to Jack.'

* * *

He was hoping it had been a strange dream. He'd wake up in his bed, drenched in cold sweat and the only consequence would be a restless night. Part of him was even hoping it was the encephalitis returned, and he had been simply talking to shadows, rather than the death-infected being that haunted him so. He sat out in the woods by the river for an hour, maybe two, surrounded by emptiness. He knew there must have been sound, but in his mind, he could only hear the pounding of his own heart and the rush of his own blood. If it was all real, what was he to do? What did the doctor truly expect him to do? He brushed all thoughts like that from his head; even if Lecter was real, and had been truly in his home, he was not going to stay there. He'd been expecting...what? Forgiveness? Understanding? Nothing that Will could ever provide him.

* * *

He was wrong. Of course he was wrong. He should have known better than to ever try to understand the psychiatrist who greeted him when he returned home, still sat in the chair opposite, still surrounded by Will's family of strays. They recognised him from before.

'You're still here, Dr Lecter.'

'You sound surprised.' Lecter cocked his head slightly as he spoke, as though genuinely confused by Will's shock. 'I trust you have called Jack Crawford?'

'Is that what you expected me to do?'

'You were gone for two hours and twenty-one minutes precisely. More than enough time to consider your options, decide that there is nothing I can offer you that will benefit you or atone for my actions, and phone the FBI to inform them directly of the situation.'

Will stood silent while Hannibal spoke, his mind racing. He really thought that Jack was on his way, with a SWAT team, and yet he remained sat motionless. After a few moments, he sighed. 'I didn't phone Jack, or Alana, or anyone. I sat beside the river and lost time.' He fell silent, waiting for anything from the doctor. Any form of gratitude, or protest, or question. Nothing. 'Why are you here, Lecter? What do you think you being here could ever possibly achieve?'

Will had never seen the effects of his speech on a person as clearly as he saw them on Hannibal in those few moments. The question seemed to shatter the remainder of the doctor's emotional wall, the fort he'd built himself up to case his emotions and desires in, leaving only defeat and dejection on his face. Even his eyes, that had always seemed to shine with some reflection of inner emotion, seemed to dull as Will's words sliced the air.

'You take in strays, Will. I was hoping I could be one of your strays.'

'The Chesapeake Ripper is a stray puppy now?' He spat the question out mockingly, yet Lecter's vulnerability hit him somehow, as much as it pained him to admit. 'You're not a stray, you're a fugitive. And a killer.'

'Have you ever questioned your current strays on their prior actions? How do you know they are not strays of their own devising, rather than the faults of others? That they deserve your sympathy?'

'A disobedient dog is different to a murderer,' Graham said, desperately trying to stop Lecter hitting him. Desperately, his mind sought to cling to who Hannibal really was. A killer. A liar._ He murdered Abigail_. Yet, he couldn't stop the next words leaving his mouth, propelled by some unknown, masochist part of him. 'Strip. Do it.'

He watched, almost with some form of angered amusement, as the doctor's eyes widened. 'Will...'

'You want me to help you, fine. But, I need to know you're safe, and I don't trust you.'

He half expected to be refused, for Hannibal to put up some form of fight. In truth, he half wanted it, if only for an excuse to throw him out that Hannibal would understand. But, Graham was let down once more as Lecter slowly began to peel the clothes from his body. He began with the dirty shirt, the grime and sweat more visible on the material as it fell to the floor, drawing disgusted looks from even the dogs as it landed at their feet. Lecter was thinner, Will noticed. He'd always been lean, but now he looked thin. _Ill_. His skin was cut and bruised, and damaged. It reminded Will more of his own form than that of the psychiatrist's past figure.

He was down to his boxers when Will looked again. They were some coarse material, so unlike anything he'd worn before. A desperate purchase, maybe?

'Everything, Lecter. All of it. I don't trust you.'

Again, he expected to be refused, and again he was surprised. Deep within him, he felt a form of pride at the power Lecter seemed to have given him. He could refuse nothing Graham ordered. It was the most control he'd ever had over the course of their relationship.

Though, he had to give the doctor credit. He remained stood straight, the air against his naked flesh causing not even a slight shiver. He was exposed, vulnerable, but Will couldn't forget that this did not make him completely powerless. He had merely let Will take control for the moment.

He let Lecter stand exposed for a minute or so, before he gestured to a door leading out the room. He struggled to keep a bitterness from his voice. 'Take a shower. Take some of my clothes. You know where everything is still, I presume.'

'I'm grateful, Will. I truly am.'

'Just go.'

* * *

It sickened him to see Lecter in his clothes. The clothes he wore in his everyday business, to shop in, to fish in, to work in. And now they were corrupted, turned black as the ash that Hannibal left in his destructive wake. He was awkward in them, also, surprising given his circumstances over the past few months, yet he wore them as a teenage boy wears his first suit, tugging at the material constantly.

Will glanced at him as he approached, newly clean from the shower, yet refused to meet his eyes. On his small table, he placed two plates, and gestured for the doctor to sit down. Lecter remained standing, however, hovering behind the chair.

'Please sit, Will.'

'Nice to know six months of escaping the FBI for the murder and mutilation of innocent people hasn't dented your manners at all, Lecter,' he said, eyebrows arched mockingly, yet still took a seat.

Hannibal sat down opposite, and looked down at the meal set before him. It looked like some form of chicken, yet had a slight burning smell to it that instantly turned the doctor off the food. However, he was aware of his body's need for food, especially given his prior situation.

'This brings back memories of the first time I ate here, the morning you shot Garett Jacob Hobbs.'

This caused Will to look up from the food, of which he had only been toying with, to Hannibal's irritation. 'I'd rather you didn't try engage in conversation, Lecter. I'm having trouble enough merely being sat here.'

'You find my company distasteful?'

'I find you distasteful.' He was desperately trying not to snap, to keep any form if emotion from his voice. He knew what Hannibal was doing, and he didn't want to give him the pleasure.

'I am the same person I always have been. The same person you worked with, you talked to, you cared about...'

'No. I cared about...I loved Dr Hannibal Lecter, the esteemed psychiatrist and trusted by the FBI, the man who cooked for me, and helped me, and I trusted. But that isn't you. You're the Chesapeake Ripper. The copycat. Hannibal the Cannibal, I believe Freddie Lounds so beautifully penned. And I don't care for you.'

'Hannibal the Cannibal?' The doctor asked, amusedly. 'You must admire her sheer creative genius.'

'I admire her more than I do you.'

* * *

Will didn't speak the rest of the day. He had to leave the house, get away from Lecter, before he too became corrupted by the dark he radiated. He left in his car straight after eating, leaving Hannibal to walk once around the house, as if learning the building would help him connect once more with its occupant. He found little changed, however, except the air was mustier from lack of cleaning and a layer of dust had fallen on Will's fishing equipment. The lures must have turned him off the hobby. He sat still for the rest of the time Will was absent, his eyes leisurely following the ticking clock, his mind churning, hidden.

He returned appropriately drunk, roughly sober enough to walk and talk, yet he was less concealed, all emotion was painted across his face as though a map. Like most of Graham's exploits, it caused a half smile to pass across Hannibal's lips as he watched him.

'You've been gone a while, Will. I hope it was not our earlier conversation.'

'I drove around. Went to a bar. I'd have taken you, of course, except you're the FBI's most wanted and your picture is pasted across every newspaper in America.' He knew he wasn't speaking intelligently, he could feel his words slurring into one another, but he smiled still, the smile stretched pained across his face. 'You can stay here, Dr Lecter. You can sleep on the floor, like the other strays. In here.'

He wanted Hannibal to protest, to argue, to do anything other than the singular nod of his head. 'Thank you, Will.'

* * *

Hannibal lay awake that night, the hard floor against his back. Cold metal bit into the skin on his wrist, and he turned his head to see Will's handcuffs attaching him to the table leg beside him. With a smirk, he remembered the last time he'd seem those handcuffs, and how Will couldn't meet his eyes as he'd locked them around his wrist earlier. He turned his gaze back towards the ceiling, staring straight ahead. Around him, he could hear the light, slumbered breathing of his fellow strays. Above that, however, ever so softly, he could hear Will Graham's breathing, and he knew he was lying awake also.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Graham lay in bed in the morning, listening to the calls of birds from outside. He knew they were supposed to be calming, soothing, but to him they were only screeches. He was praying that yesterday had been merely a dream.

It wouldn't be the first time. The first few weeks after, he'd slept well. He had surprised his colleagues in that. They were all plagued with guilty, restless nights and dreams that had them screaming, gradually turning them all into corpses as dead as those lying on cold slabs in the morgue. But, Will, he remained the same, his nights no more affected than before, his days still plagued with visions and hallucinations, but it wasn't of the Ripper. Or Abigail. But he wasn't coping; he just hadn't taken anything in. Not truly. Abigail wasn't dead, despite being one of the three mourners at her funeral. Hannibal wasn't the Ripper, despite all the headlines he had to walk past every day, all accompanied by some blurry photo of Lecter from a crime scene. And Hannibal was coming back. He hadn't left Will. _He wouldn't._

Lecter's house was big, and all the forensics had been fully focused on the bodies, both the ones found on the streets and the ones in the fridge. They took their time. Meticulous in how they rummaged through the doctor's belongings, his life, and uncovered more and more that Will, who thought he'd known Hannibal, could never have dreamt of. It took them a few weeks, therefore, to find Lecter's notes on Will, to find the evidence he'd planted against him to have him arrested in his place. Then, he felt Jack turn on him. It was then that he truly realised who, _what_, Hannibal was.

And then the nightmares started.

* * *

A scratching from the main room disturbed his thoughts, for which he was grateful. He went to shout into the dogs, let them know he was awake for them, when he stopped himself. If yesterday was real, if it had truly happened, of which the more he thought about the less real it seemed, then Lecter would hear him also. For some reason, that disgusted him.

He sat up, and swung his feet out to place them on the cold floor. His head was pounding slightly, and he was beginning to regret the last couple of whiskies the night before. With a deep breath, whether to stable himself or prepare himself, he padded into the main room.

It hadn't been a nightmare; Lecter's eyes met his gaze along with the eyes of his strays, of which Will supposed was a positive. At least he was mentally sane. That caused a bitter smile to spread across his dry lips. He ignored the man whose eyes continued to follow him as he let the dogs out the front door, though part of him wanted to crouch beside him and touch him, just gently, just to check he was real. Check all of this was real. Yesterday was a blur, as surreal to Will as some hallucinogenic vision, but today was like waking up on a cold street walk. He was aiding a fugitive. No, that was too distant, too clinical. He was helping Hannibal Lecter. The Chesapeake Ripper. Abigail's killer. Cannibal.

Hannibal's eyes never left Will, though they narrowed as Will remained stood still beside the front door, his hand still on the knob as though he'd frozen. 'Will? Are you well?' He was met with a cool stare, as though his voice turned the agent's stomach. Which was probably true. 'You didn't sleep last night, Will.'

'Do I look that bad?' He instantly regretted the words. They were too personal, too open.

'No,' Hannibal answered quickly, his voice low and soft. 'But, I could hear your breathing. You lay awake, staring at the ceiling and praying that I was merely a shadow you thought you'd seen out of the corner of your eye. We are the same in that respect.'

'We are not the same in any respect.' Will was beside the sink by this point, splashing his face with the icy water in a bid to wake himself truly. He wasn't alert enough for conversation with Lecter yet. 'You lay awake also then?'

'This may surprise you, Will, but sleeping is made a great deal harder when you're lying barely clothed on the floor, attached to a table by handcuffs.'

It was enough to get a weak grin out of Graham as he began making some supermarket brand of instant coffee, though Hannibal knew he couldn't smile back in return. Will couldn't feel they were too similar. Not yet.

* * *

There was a certain reluctance about Graham as he unlocked the handcuffs with the key he'd placed inside a kitchen drawer. Maybe it was due to how close Will had to get to him, so close it felt like their breath was mingling once more, their hands were mere inches apart just as they used to be. Or maybe it was due to how close Will had to be to Lecter's mouth, to his teeth, and that he couldn't free his mind from the memories of those organs wrapped in freezer bags dotting the kitchen shelves. Could Will imagine Lecter clamping his jaw around him? His teeth sinking into the agent's skin, blood dropping down Graham's body, down Lecter's chin, a wide bloody smile as Will howled in agony. No doubt it had crossed his mind. _It had never crossed Hannibal's._

The handcuffs clicked, unlocked, and Will backed away quickly, going to sit at the table on which sat the two mugs of coffee he had been preparing. Once Will was seated, Hannibal rose from the floor and joined him at the table. His whole body was stiff, the pain seeming to seep from one muscle to the next, yet he ignored it. He could stretch when not in company.

'Do you still have nightmares, Will?' He meant it to sound friendly, caring, but he was afraid he just sounded clinical. Will's face let him know that he did.

'You aren't my psychiatrist anymore, Lecter. And I'm not the same person I was all those months ago,' he answered with gritted teeth, and took a sip of the coffee as if to steady himself.

'Of course, you aren't. You seem better now, more aware. You have your empathy more under control, I believe. You meet my eyes more often.'

'No thanks to you.' Will looked up from the table briefly. 'And you're wrong. I just know from experience that I can't get in your head. I thought I could, once, but I was wrong. So I can meet your eyes. It's the only way I know you're really human, and not a figment of my nightmares. My nightmares couldn't create eyes that dark.'

'Even so, the FBI won't allow you to work with them any longer.'

Will paused. Hannibal was trying to rile him, get him angry, make him vulnerable. He wasn't willing to let this happen. 'After the Ripper case, after they nearly arrested me, thinking I was involved, we all decided it was best if I didn't return to the FBI. They paid me well, and as it's only me and the strays, I haven't needed to return to work at all yet.'

'You keep yourself open in the hope the phone will ring and it will be Jack Crawford on the line. You try not to leave the house because, however subconsciously, you want to see Alana Bloom driving up to see you. You keep the radio turned off to avoid any form of news report that details a new killer that you have not been consulted on. You don't like to admit any of this, Will, because ultimately it requires hoping for the murder of innocent people, but sometimes you feel it would be a worthwhile sacrifice if it redeemed you to Jack.'

'I don't need to redeem myself to Jack Crawford.'

'Maybe not, but you feel you need to talk to him. And Dr Bloom. You all went through similar experiences six months ago, you need to share.' His voice was soft, soothing, enough to distract Will as the doctor placed his hand over Graham's, which lay on the table still beside the half-consumed coffee. At the contact, Will instantly flinched and pulled his hand from underneath, yet stayed seated. _Progress._

'I don't think I'm the main concern here anyway, Lecter. I'm not the one who's been missing for six months and suddenly shown up at the house of the man I tried to frame for murder. So please, explain.' He could ask this today. He needed to.

'Do you truly wish to know?' He took a small sip of the lukewarm liquid before him as Will continued to stare. 'Very well. I knew the FBI was on my tail. I don't know how, or how much they truly knew, so I left quickly but did not travel far. I sought assistance at the residence of my psychiatrist, Dr Bedelia Du Maurier.'

'Dr Du Maurier?' Flashbacks of a blonde corpse, black bruising around her neck, lying cold on a mortuary slab in Baltimore. 'Du Maurier's dead. Suicide. She hung herself.'

'You're wrong...'

'No, we found her body. Jack thought the Ripper might have gone to someone he knew. Sought sanctuary. But we only found her. She must have found out, felt guilty...'

'No, Will, you're wrong.'

'Du Maurier is dead.'

'I am not denying her death. Merely her suicide.'

It took Graham a second or so before he truly understood. 'You killed her? She was a Ripper victim?'

'I sought her help in the first few days after the FBI began tracking me. She had no idea what I was supposed to have done, and she owed me a debt. On the third day, however, there was an article in The Tattler. Freddie Lounds. And she learnt all. I had no choice. I never wanted to hurt her; she was a colleague and a friend...'

'So you hung her from the staircase? Just as I was a patient, and a colleague and a...' The word 'lover' caught on his tongue. 'A friend. And a friend. Yet you still set me up as the copycat killer. And now I'm helping you, just as Du Maurier was, will you hang me too? When I become useless, will it be my body that Jack finds next, my organs removed and my body mutilated?'

'You asked me why I am here. I'm merely informing you. After Dr Du Maurier, I tried staying in small motels and shelters, which became increasingly difficult as I found my own face on the front of newspapers. It was an unsettling experience.'

'You killed again.'

It was something about the look in Will's eyes, sadness maybe, emptiness, or maybe acceptance, which pained Lecter to nod his head slowly. 'Yes. A detective, in a car park. He thought he could single-handedly turn the Ripper in. He was obnoxious, arrogant.'

'He was English. You almost caused an international incident.'

'I took his wallet, and his keys. His coat was new, so I took that also. I stayed in his hotel room for a night or so. Then you found his body.'

'Not me personally. Jack Crawford had me by that point, though I hear I missed a treat.' He was attempting sarcasm, yet Will succeeded in merely sounding tired, despite the early time of day. 'Do you feel anything, Lecter? Remorse? Guilt? I always told Jack the Ripper felt nothing for his victims, looked at them like pigs...but they were all random. Do you feel anything...did you feel anything for Du Maurier? For Abigail? Why are you even here?'

'I do feel guilt, Will, for Dr Du Maurier. She was a colleague, and a friend, and she was willing to help me when I required. Her death was a shame. I feel guilt for Abigail especially.' He paused, his tongue wetting his lips slowly as he thought. He needed the right words, the right tone, the right way to say this. _He needed Will to understand_. 'I loved Abigail, Will. When I told you we were to be her fathers, that I felt a paternal responsibility for her, that wasn't a lie. I wanted to look after her, to care for her, to watch her bloom between us. We could have been a family, Will, Abigail, yourself and I. Her death was a tragic accident...

'You slit her throat.'

'Not because I planned to. Not because I wanted to. Because I was forced to. A tragic accident on all of our behalves.'

Will couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. He wanted to be hearing wrong, as though the words were hitting his ear, but they were becoming twisted and distorted into something completely different to that being originally spoken. 'You tell me all of this, every single word designed to open the old wounds you inflicted, but you sit there like before. Like you always did. Why are you here, Lecter? Why are you back? What do you honestly think I can provide you?'

'I was never going to leave you, Will. That was never part of my design.' The doctor expected Will to flinch at his own speech reused, yet he seemed to soften instead, his eyes slightly warmer. 'I thought we could be a family. But, I had to test you, for you to prove that you were capable. Both you and Abigail. Unfortunately, for you, this meant almost destroying you in the process. But, that's why I tried to frame you, Will. You'd have been safe in prison, kept away from Jack Crawford, who broke you slowly, crime scene after crime scene, yet could never understand the after-effects. I understood. And I'm sorry. But it was necessary.'

'Why are you here...?' His voice was a mere whisper, afraid to raise it any louder of fear of breaking the honesty that Lecter had somehow woven into the very air around them, like a delicate web.

'I never left you, not really. I kept away for as long as I believed the FBI would have you under surveillance, as well as following the news as best I could. Then, it was just ensuring I would be here while you were out, if only to avoid startling you too suddenly. I made a copy of your house keys months ago...'

'You made a copy of my keys? I gave you a key, what the hell did you need a copy for?'

'I left the original key somewhere you would find at my home when you searched it. I needed you to believe I wouldn't use it, so you wouldn't think to change the locks.'

It had worked, Will couldn't help but think bitterly. Jack had told him, urged him to move house after Lecter's disappearance. _If he comes for anyone, it'll be you, Will_. But Will didn't. He couldn't even bring himself to have the locks changed, unwilling to change any aspect of his life because of Hannibal. _Not when he's already changed so much._

'But I came back for you, Will. I'm here now for you, just as I wanted it to be so long ago.' He really did look happy as he spoke, his face tender, rather than cruel as it so often could be. In a way, he seemed naive. Innocent. Though it would only damage Will if he kept in that mind-set.

'Alienated from Jack and Alana. Isolated, alone. Constantly fearing for my own sanity, having to check the World I see around me is my own. Both drowning and suffocating simultaneously. But I have you. This is your design, is it, Dr Lecter?' Will stood, trying to appear angry, trying to raise his voice, yet maintaining only a look of complete exhaustion. 'I need to go out.'

* * *

Hannibal couldn't keep a smile from his face though, even long after Will had left. He'd used the doctor's title. He'd listened to him. He hadn't rejected him. _Progress._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

They fell into some sort of routine, as strange as the concept was to Will when he thought about it. The idea that Hannibal could return and slip so easily into his life, after everything that had happened between them. Or, maybe, it was because of everything that had happened between them. Either way, it meant the same. Will was not alone any longer.

It was hardly what anyone would call a normal daily routine, however, despite them being used to it. Will continued to handcuff Lecter to the table in the main room, though gradually it became more force of habit than an act of fear. _More scared of Lecter leaving him_. He continued to sleep in his bed, though his nights were becoming increasingly tortured, more frequently waking in the night to the feel of sweat soaked sheets beneath him. In the morning, he let the dogs out and unlocked Lecter, each day leaving him more relaxed around the doctor. They shared breakfast, Hannibal using Will's increasing openness with him to interrogate him, quiz him, even attempt to psychoanalyse him, as though they were merely doctor and patient once more. Some days, they merely shared conversation, and Hannibal was proud to note that every day saw Will more receptive to him, more natural around him, as though Will was increasingly seeing him only as Dr Hannibal Lecter, and not the Chesapeake Ripper. It pleased him.

* * *

Though, from there, he lost Will. He would leave the house, and only return hours later, just as he had the first day. Sometimes he'd appear normal, and most people would not have been able to guess he'd been drinking. Hannibal, however, could smell it on him from the moment he stepped through the door. Other days, he'd enter staggering, leaving Lecter to beg the question how he drove himself home safely in such a condition.

'You need to stop drinking, Will.'

It was one of the occasions that Will could have gotten away with having spent hours in the bar. If the person he'd been talking to had been anyone other than Hannibal Lecter.

'You have no right to tell me what I can or can't do, Dr Lecter.'

'You're drinking because you think it will help you sleep without nightmares. Or you think it will lessen them, at least. You're wrong, however.'

It was only at this point that Will noticed the doctor was sat at the old, dusty desk, Graham's fishing equipment beside him on the surface. A large magnifying glass was set up also. He felt a slight shiver as he realised what the equipment was for. 'What have you been doing, Lecter?'

'You need to do something other than drink to occupy your mind, Will. I've been designing lures for you. I'm the one who took fishing from you; it is only my duty to return it to you.'

He took the equipment out with him the following day, yet still smelt of alcohol when he returned to the house that night.

* * *

It was midday almost by the time Will staggered into the main room, his head spinning slightly with every step. Last night had been one of his heavier nights, after being unable to sleep the previous few nights; he thought more alcohol would help. Maybe even just knock him out. Anything to rid his mind of the image of Abigail Hobbs in that basement, and the feel of a cold, metal blade in his palm.

Hannibal was sitting up when Will entered the room, his dark eyes fully focused on the agent. Will avoided his gaze, ducking his head slightly just to try block the feel of his eyes on his skin.

'Are you feeling well today, Will?'

'Very funny, Lecter.' Will splashed his face in the sink, relishing the cold water on his skin. 'Someone as observant as you I think can tell that I've felt better.'

A slight smile crossed Hannibal's lips at Will's indirect compliment. At the sight of his guest's amusement, Will gave a small laugh.

'On a serious note, you missed a number of phone calls last night. Someone wanted to get hold of you.' The sound of the phone had shocked Hannibal slightly the day before, the first time he had heard it since he had arrived at Will's.

'Jack?'

'I don't know. I didn't think it would be wise of me to answer it, given my current legal situation.'

Will crossed to the phone, taking two attempts to dial the voice-mail number with clumsy fingers. Five messages. Eight missed calls._ Did he want to listen to them?_ He pressed one.

'Hey Will, it's Beverly here. You know, Beverly Katz, FBI? If you've forgotten me this quickly, you're a bastard. No, not really. Shit, forgot you don't have long on these things. Erm, it'd be nice to hear from you. You've got my number, phone me back.'

The next. 'Hey Will, Beverly again. Not sure if you just didn't get the last message, thought I'd double check. Call back.'

'Hey Will, Beverly here. This is Will Graham's number, right? From the FBI Academy? We used to work together? Love to hear back from you.'

'Hey Will, you're ignoring me, aren't you? You son of a bitch.'

Will couldn't help but raise his eyebrows quizzically at the last message. Though he felt a surge of warmth within him at the sound of her voice, even over the phone. He hadn't realised how much he had missed Beverly. He didn't even think he would. Some part if him regretted ever losing contact with her. He pressed the one again to hear the last message.

'Hey Will, seeing as I've heard nothing from you, I'm guessing you're ignoring me. Hoping it's just my connection to Jack, nothing personal. Still think it'd be nice to see you though. I always take coffee in a little Italian coffee-store few blocks from the academy at about half one. Maybe you could meet me there tomorrow? It's called Vogue. Looks and sounds like a fashion boutique. It's not. Be great if you could make it. See you, maybe.'

* * *

He tried to look smart. Not over the top, he hasn't gone out and brought a suit or anything, but he wanted to look good. More than that, he wanted to look fine. Physically fine. Mentally fine. Everything he hadn't been the last few months at the academy. He thought Lecter would have laughed at him that morning when he was trying to prepare himself, but he'd stayed silent. He supposed Lecter used to dress well every day, no matter what he was doing._ He probably still would, if he could._

The coffee shop was nice, actually. Small, but light and airy. The windows were large, allowing the light to illuminate the room, giving it a spacious illusion. However, Will had taken a table right at the back still. Being out was enough, he didn't need to be surrounded by people. Maybe it was more than that. He didn't want to be visible from the window in case old colleagues or students passed, and saw him. He didn't want the pitying looks.

He was just fiddling with his aspirin bottle when he heard the door open, and then close, knocking the bell hung on the frame.

'Espresso. No cream, thanks.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

He looked up to see Beverly stood at the counter, slim fingers drumming on the counter top impatiently. She was moving her head slowly, as if scanning the room for him. When she failed to spot him, he watched her shoulders slump and she took her coffee, her air so much more defeated in so short a time. Then she saw Will.

'Will? You made it?' He could tell she was desperately trying not to beam at him. She seemed truly happy to see him; it was infectious enough to have him smile back. 'I thought you didn't get my messages.'

'I know, I listened to them. I wasn't ignoring you. I just wasn't in yesterday, sorry. You look well, by the way.' It wasn't the entire truth, she hadn't changed since he last saw her, all those months ago. But he'd been expecting her to be so much worse, affected by the Ripper just as he had been.

'Thanks. You look awful though.' She had no sympathy, instead a little smirk was perched on her lips. 'Hungover? Lack of sleep? Who was she? Some all-American blonde? Fiery red-head?'

'Ha.' He nodded, running a hand nervously through his hair. 'Try petite, brunette, throat slit, bloody...'

'Oh shit, I'm sorry, Will. Abigail, right? You know me, Zeller and Price wanted to go to the funeral. Jack didn't think it would be entirely appropriate.'

'I can see why. Didn't you guys...?'

'Work on her? Yeah. We were her pathologists. Don't think that's what put Jack off though. Think it was more how close her killer was to us all.' She paused for a second. She wanted to ask about Hannibal, he could tell, but she stopped herself. 'How was the funeral?'

'Poorly attended, but I wasn't expecting much else. I went with Dr Bloom. We were the only two guests. Oh, and Freddie Lounds, the reporter.'

'That bitch?' She was unusually angry in addressing Lounds. At Will's questioning glance, she shrugged, unashamed of her plain fury. 'She phoned the bureau a lot in the aftermath. Trying to speak to anyone who had something she could buy from then. Information, photos, the like. At the peak, she was phoning three, maybe four, times a day? She eventually stopped, realised no-one knew anything worth bothering with.'

'Really? No-one sold her anything?' He remembered the first few months after the Ripper's unmasking remarkable clearly. He could see the line of papers before him, the headlines bold, accusing. The Tattler's was the boldest, however, always promising new information, scathing reports of the FBI, anything the public would lap up. At the time, Will had been convinced someone in the bureau was selling information. But maybe, now thinking about it, that had just been the encephalitis talking.

'No-one had anything to sell. We didn't know Lecter.'

'You never met Ha...the Ripper?'

She didn't fail to pick up on his word stumble, yet she elected to ignore it._ That wasn't her area to pry into_. 'I met him once or twice. Exchanged pleasantries. I think Ms Lounds wanted a bit more than that. I was never good enough to grace Dr Lecter's dinner table.' Instantly, she knew she had said the wrong thing. She didn't need Will's fallen face to confirm that. 'Oh God, I'm sorry. Shit. I didn't mean that at all.'

'What do you want, Beverly? Jack sent you, didn't he? Six months with no communication and suddenly five messages and coffee? You've got another case.'

She sighed reluctantly before answering. She'd wanted this to go so much better. 'Yeah, you're right. Jack sent me. And yeah, we do have another case.'

'Details?'

'I can't, not here.'

'You can't give me anything? How am I supposed to help if you won't tell me anything? Just vague details, that's all.'

'Come back to the bureau with me after this. We'll tell you everything there. You can see the notes, the body, anything you want...'

'You think it's the Chesapeake Ripper, don't you?' He felt his stomach drop as he watched Beverly nod her head slowly. Sadly, she saw the look in Will's eyes as he realised entirely what this meant. 'The Ripper's started again? Are you sure?'

'We're pretty sure it's Lecter's work, it bears most the hallmarks. That's why Jack wants you though. He needs you to confirm it. You are the expert in the Chesapeake Ripper and his crimes.'

'And if I don't want to help?'

'You will once you've seen the file.'

* * *

Will hadn't missed the FBI. Not the building, anyway. There were too many shadows that lurked around the corners, hiding in the dark and unknown. Every step into the building felt like a step backwards into the nightmares and instability. _He was being ridiculous. A child. He was better. It was all in his mind_. Still, he felt himself checking over his shoulder repeatedly as Beverly led him towards the evidence room that afternoon, expecting to find Garrett Jacob Hobbs staring at him with dead eyes._ Or Abigail._

* * *

He'd been stood alone, looking up at the wall covered in notes for almost an hour when he heard footsteps behind him. Light. They weren't Jack's. Beverly had returned to her lab almost as soon as she had walked him to the empty office. Maybe an intern then, or a trainee. Someone who hasn't heard of crazy Will Graham and his psychopathic sympathy.

'Hi, Will.'

He turned slowly, fearing that to move too quickly would scare the speaker away. Or cause her to fade, as often did with hallucinations. But, no, she remained stood just inside the doorway, one hand delicately resting against the door frame, as though she needed stability just as much as he did. 'Alana? Oh, sorry...Doctor Bloom?'

She smiled slightly. 'Alana, Will, always just Alana to you. So, Jack has brought you in for the new case?'

'You disapprove?'

'Quite the contrary, I asked him to get you.' She stepped further into the room, slowly, as though testing his reaction to her invasion of his space. When he failed to react, she continued. 'I resent the way I behaved towards you, Will. You didn't deserve that. And you shouldn't have had to leave here for my benefit. Or for anyone else's benefit besides your own. I don't like to think of how many cases we could have avoided had you been here. I can't quite shake the feeling of guilt lapping at me like the sea does a cliff, eroding it slowly until it collapses and there remains nothing of it except the memory.'

'You have nothing to feel guilty for.' He sank back to lean against the desk, needing the feeling of the steady wood against his hands.

'I have everything to feel guilty for, Will. I said awful things, did awful things...'

'You said and did merely what you've been trained to. You saw the evidence and, logically, followed it to me. As did the rest of the FBI.' He spoke plainly, trying to keep his voice as emotionless as possible, else he feared the stab in his betrayed heart would seep into his words. 'It was what the Ripper wanted, and he did it well. I don't blame you.'

'I blame me.' She sat at the desk, forcing Will to turn to follow her as her eyes scanned the board of notes, and photos, and maps, and she put her head in her hands, more in an effort to block the evidence from her mind than anything. After a moment or two, she looked up at Will, and he noticed the dark circle around her eyes, almost as dark as his. 'It wasn't just that I thought you were a killer, Will, I was hoping you were the killer. I was hoping you had set it all up, which sounds so awful when I say it aloud. But you weren't well, everyone could see it. If you were the killer, I could tell myself it was ok, it wasn't you. You were mentally ill. Your illness made you do it. But, with Hannibal, that wasn't true. He wasn't ill. He was just a killer. And then I have to question how no-one ever saw it, how I didn't see it. He mentored me, Will. He was a colleague. A friend. How could I never see what he was?'

'It's ok, Alana.' He wanted to do something, hold her hand, anything. But he couldn't. It wouldn't be right. 'None of this is your fault. None of it.'

'Did he do it?' She didn't respond to his pathetic attempts to console her, maybe she hadn't heard him. Or maybe she just didn't want to acknowledge them. She was looking back up at the board, eyes darting over the grisly crime scene photos to the blurred black and white shot of Lecter pinned in the top corner.

Will stood straight and circled the desk until he was facing the evidence head on. 'No, he didn't. This wasn't the Ripper.'

'How can you be so sure? There's the body mutilation, the organ removal. The body was recovered in Wolf Trap, Will. Don't you think it could be a sign? A sick warning for us? For you?'

The location of the body did make Will's blood run cold. He didn't know what Hannibal did while he was gone. _Was he harbouring an active murderer in his own home?_ 'The victim was sexually assaulted, raped. That's not the Ripper.'

'That wasn't the Ripper. I don't want to think Lecter would do that either, Will. But none of us truly knew him, we don't know what he could do...'

'No, it isn't him. The Ripper sees his victims as sacks of meat, less than even pigs. He wouldn't reduce himself to sexual encounters with such things.' He spoke the next statement through gritted teeth, as though disgusted by himself saying it, 'besides, he'd consider it rude.'

* * *

They spent the next forty minutes together in the room, both silently scouring the evidence for anything that could settle either of their minds. Alana eventually stood.

'I need to go, Will.' She noted the sad look in his eyes as she spoke, as though he believed he'd missed an opportunity that would not come again.

'It was good to see you again, Alana. It really was.'

She smiled, another half-smile, as though that was all she had the energy for. 'You too, Will.'

* * *

He couldn't concentrate as he drove home that evening. Rain was thudding on the roof of his car, yet he could hear nothing above the whirring of his own mind. After Alana had left, he'd spent hours in the bureau, just staring at the board. He'd studied photos for hours, looking for anything, anything at all, that would soothe him. _Hannibal wasn't the killer. This wasn't his work_. Will had taken the photo of the doctor from the board and stared at it. Could his crimes have escalated? Lecter wasn't a rapist. The idea turned Will's stomach, so much more than he could have predicted. But the body was found in Wolf Trap, and every time the image of the mutilated body flashed through his mind, he couldn't help but think of the doctor.

* * *

Hannibal lay awake again that night, his head turned towards the door to Will's room, watching, listening. He could smell the whiskey from Will from where he lay, the cheap stink of it enough to give him a mild headache. Will had come in drunk, as per routine, yet more so than he had before. He'd snapped the handcuffs around Hannibal's wrist with no words, his eyes avoiding the doctor's gaze, though whether through drink or some other reason, Lecter couldn't tell. Then, he'd staggered to his room, slamming the door behind him. Since then, over an hour ago, Lecter had laid awake, simply listening, and thinking.

He heard eventually what he had been listening for. What he'd been expecting to hear at some point A cough coming from Will's room, followed by a sort of retching. He was going to choke on his own, alcohol poisoned vomit, while Lecter just lay listening. Except that wasn't part of his design._ That would ruin everything._

Will couldn't breathe. Abigail sat straddling him, hands around his neck, pushing every breath out of his body while blood dripped from the open wound around her throat. _You killed me, Will Graham, now I return the favour._ Her hands were cold against his skin, icy, and he could feel himself growing colder. His eyelids flickered as he gasped desperately for air, for life. He wanted to force her away, yet his arms were heavy, too heavy for him. Every second lasted longer than the previous, while his throat got tighter and tighter.

Warm hands against his bare skin. Pulling him up. A rush of sour bile out his mouth as he sat up in bed, one warm hand still holding his arm, another hand holding a bowl just below his mouth. The stale stench of alcohol remained in his mouth as he finished, the vile liquid dripping down his mouth. A tissue being handed to him, and footsteps as the hands took the bowl from the room, washing away any remnant of the evening Graham had spent in the dirty bar earlier. Will shivered as he remained sat up in the bed, rocking slightly while his head continued to spin. Footsteps back into the room, and a figure knelt down before him, wrapping a towel around his shoulders.

'Will. Will, are you OK?'

'Lecter.' He could make out the vague outline of his sharp face in the night. 'You're not here. You're locked up...'

'A pair of handcuffs is not enough to hold me, Will. Of which, you should be grateful.' He placed a hand on Will's bare thigh, feeling the cold skin beneath his touch. 'Are you alright?'

'My name is Will Graham. It's...' He turned his head slowly to look at the clock, yet his eyes could not focus enough to see anything but neon blurs.

'It's 2.15am. Where are you, Will?'

'Minne...Minnesota.'

'No, Will.'

'Wolf...Wolf Trap. Virginia. I'm in Virginia,' he stammered, continuing to shake, despite the towel around him and the warmth against his leg. 'But Abigail?'

'Abigail Hobbs is dead. She is of no concern to you anymore.'

'No, you killed her. Just as you killed others. Just as you still kill now.' The photos from the bureau were racing through Will's mind as he rambled drunkenly. The pictures were vivid, as though he had them in his hand. _Mirrors stuck in the victim's eyes._

'The FBI thinks they have another Ripper victim, don't they? That's why Ms Katz phoned you to meet her.' He spoke softly, carefully. He wanted to show he was sincere, to have the agent believe him, before he lost him again so soon. Slowly, gently, he lifted his hand from Will's leg to cup his face. He expected Will to react but he made no action. 'You have shown me great sympathy, Will, despite claiming to be unable to empathise with me. I'm grateful. And you need know I would never repay you with such an action. You need not worry about the FBI.'

'I can feel your warmth.' He smiled as he spoke, though he didn't mean to. He couldn't control himself. Will's mind would not allow him to focus, not on himself, not on Hannibal, not on his words, not on anything but how cold he felt, and how warm the touch of the doctor was. More words he didn't mean to let spill from his mouth. 'Sleep here tonight. With me.'

'I don't think...'

'I need to feel something. And I can feel nothing but you.'

He slept better that night, despite the alcohol that raced through his veins. He couldn't feel that. Nor could he feel the beginnings of the headache caused by the dehydration. He could only feel the warmth of Lecter's arm, snaked around his stomach, and Hannibal's chest against his back, his breathing steady to match his own.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Various points for this chapter:**_

_**1) I'm well aware I've been saying Freddie Lounds writes for The Tattler, rather , than TattleCrime in this fic. I apologise. I've been reading the books and watching the film series, and forgot. So instead, I've said that is the website for The Tattler paper, and she's been promoted (super sorry, guys).**_

_**2) The killer I'm introducing this chapter (hinted at in the last chapter) will be loosely based on Francis Dolarhyde (aka the Red Dragon) from Thomas Harris' 'Red Dragon', though I will be altering parts of his character to suit the fic.**_

_**Thanks for reading so far.**_

**Chapter 4**

'I want you to talk me through the FBI case you've been asked to work on. What made you think it was my work?'

* * *

It was late morning following Will's excessive drinking. He hadn't woken until late, when a warm aroma had forced his mind to stir. _Hannibal was cooking_. He wanted himself to panic at the thought, yet his body was in too much of a mess to reject the thought of any food, whatever form it took. He managed to push himself into a sitting position, slowly to avoid any sharp movements of his head, when Lecter brought a plate into him.

'What is it?'

'Whatever you had in your cupboards that I thought would benefit you this morning.' At Will's quizzical expression, he chuckled. 'You seem to think I've never been in your position, Will.'

Lecter drunk, now that was an amusing thought. He sat at the foot of the bed while Will ate, though whether out of choice or lack of anywhere else to sit was unclear to Graham. He sat watching him carefully, as if weighing up the situation. Occasionally, he opened his mouth as if to talk, before closing it quickly before Will expected conversation. Eventually, he waited until Will had finished eating before he finally said what had been plaguing his mind.

* * *

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'The FBI has a new body that they believe was a victim of the Chesapeake Ripper. You told me this last night, if you can't remember.' His gaze was piercing, the light through the curtains just enough to illuminate the crimson flecks in his dark eyes. 'Jack sent for you to inspect the case. Tell me about it.'

'It's sensitive information. I can't just tell you.'

'That certainly never stopped you before.'

'You were my psychiatrist before, and consulted by the FBI of your own merit. The situation has changed.' It was the truth; FBI case information could hardly be passed around. Yet Will still felt a sharp stab of guilt, like every word he was speaking was a lie.

'You also think I am the killer.'

The bluntness forced Will to speak. 'No. No, this isn't a Ripper victim.'

'And you know this how?'

That stopped him suddenly. Lecter wasn't denying the murder. Not as Will had wanted him to. 'The body had some qualities of the Ripper. Not all of them, however.'

'What did it have?'

It was surreal. Even for Will, who was haunted by hallucinations and nightmares of the victims and their killer, actually sitting and discussing the Chesapeake Ripper, as if he wasn't sat in front of him, was twisted. 'The body was mutilated. The face was badly cut and there were bits of mirror lodged in the victim's eyes. There was also organ removal. The heart was missing. Required anatomical knowledge. The killer sewed the body back up, wiped it clean. They only found out about the missing organ when they autopsied the body.' He paused before the last point. 'It was also found in Wolf Trap.'

Hannibal sat silent for few moments after Will stopped speaking. He noticed how uncomfortable the agent suddenly was, his body tense, head bowed so as not to make any form of eye contact. He knew the body wasn't his. The last victim had been the detective while he was on the run. The previous one, Dr Du Maurier. Though her blood seemed to stick to his own hands, rather than those of the Ripper. 'And what reasons do you have for believing the victim is not that of the Chesapeake Ripper?'

'I was rather hoping you'd provide those for me, Dr Lecter,' he answered sarcastically, before sighing. 'The body wasn't publicly displayed, she was found in her home by a friend a few days after death.'

'And?'

'That's all.'

'Will, if the only reason you had to suspect the victim was killed by anyone other than myself was that the body was not publicly displayed, you'd have handed me over to the FBI almost instantly. You certainly would not have returned here, drunk, and openly accused me. There is another reason. One you believe to be so improbable that you are willing to ignore all other evidence pointing towards the Ripper, yet one not so impossible as not to accuse me. What else did you find?'

Another pause. Graham licked his dry lips nervously before speaking. 'The victim had been assaulted before death. She was raped.'

Even as he said it, it felt wrong. Like trying to finish a jigsaw and realising halfway through that all of the pieces are wrong and you're following the wrong picture. _Hannibal wasn't the killer_. That was clear now. What wasn't clear was how he could ever have suspected such a thing to begin with.

'And you think I would be capable of that?' Lecter's voice remained unchanged, still steady, still calm. But it was different. He was angry. Upset. Betrayed. A current invisible on the surface, yet threatened to drown Will should he step too deep.

'No, not you. But the Chesapeake Ripper...'

'I am the Chesapeake Ripper, Will. We are the same being, something you seem to struggle grasping.' There was something strange about saying it openly, as though it was a fact that should always be known, yet never spoken. Something that merely hung in the air like a spider on a thread.

'I saw a man sat in Church with his tongue used as a page-marker. That was the Chesapeake Ripper, but that wasn't you.'

'When I returned, you saw me only as the Chesapeake Ripper; the rest was lost to you. Now, I feel, you have lost sight of the Ripper as you attempt to wrestle with our deepening relationship. You have yet to unite the two.'

'You talk about it like it's nothing. It isn't nothing. These are lives, and real people and...'

'And you're worried that by merging your thoughts about the Chesapeake Ripper and your feelings towards me, you'll lose them both.'

'It'll be different. You'll be different.'

'No, I'll be the same person I always have been. The memories you have of our time spent together will remain the same, the time we spend together in the future will remain the same. But you'll be looking through eyes that see the whole of me, rather than just what you have previously only wanted to see.' He paused, watching with his dark eyes piercing, for any sign of reaction from Graham. 'You'll see both the Ripper and myself in your memories.'

'The Ripper killed Miriam Lass and dangled her arm in front of Jack like a carrot for a donkey. That was the Ripper. You invited Jack over for dinner to express sympathy, discuss her case…'

'And if you merge the two memories, you'll realise I killed Agent Lass three years ago, froze her body, and then cooked her remains for Jack the evening I invited him over to discuss his missing agent,' Lecter said plainly, and Will's head rose quickly, then regretted it as pain shot through, and he met Hannibal's eyes.

'And you question why the FBI, and myself, struggle to believe you can be capable of murder, and cruelty, but not rape?'

'Death is beautiful, just as beautiful as life is. Yet, it is under-appreciated. Death is mystifying, and intriguing, and pure, despite the morbidity that surrounds it. I merely take death and create art from it. The same with the victims. In life, they were rude, obnoxious, vicious. In death, they become beautiful. They served in death that which they refused to serve in life. Death is natural, it isn't cruel.' His eyes remained level the whole time, he spoke without flinching, unafraid of his words. 'But rape, rape is cruel. Rape is power play. Rape is an act that allows those who are plagued with insecurity to feel better about themselves by forcing themselves and their weaknesses onto others. Yet, it fails, as they still remain weak, they have just damaged another in the process. It is ugly, unnatural, an act reminiscent of our ancestors' years of slavery and entitlement. That you cannot see the difference is surprising.'

'The FBI...'

'You aren't the FBI, Will. The FBI is Jack Crawford, to whom the World is clear cut and simple, and Alana Bloom, who knows of the complexities but can't bring herself to look at them. You are different. I was hoping you would see that.' He stood slowly, casting a glance to the window, the curtains still closed yet light still shining dimly through the thin material. 'I believe, Will, today it is my turn to walk the moors aimlessly. Should I not return, I'll grant you full visitation rights at the Baltimore Hospital.'

_For you or me_, Will wanted to ask, yet the doctor had already left the room.

* * *

He thought Will would understand. Not everything. Just the idea. Life was beautiful, everything about it. To live was to experience lights and airs and motions. It was to wake in the morning and feel the potential of the day ahead, enough to make your heart flutter. It was to savour every second, and every encounter, as each fanned the fire that burnt inside your chest. Life was beautiful.

But death was equally so. Just as life created, death created also. What it created, and inspired, was darker, true, but humanity needed such gloom. Just as man created God, and only seconds later created Satan, death's beauty served to illuminate life in a way otherwise impossible. And life turned death into art.

Hannibal had walked halfway across the fields, and he stopped suddenly before turning to face Will's house. He remembered Will once saying that he always felt safe looking upon it. Closing his eyes, Lecter tried to picture it, put himself in Will's position just as he'd tried so many to do with him. Night. Cold air. Mist swirling across the ground like cool breath. Across, the house lights remained on, a beacon as if to guide him home. Or maybe to warn him of oncoming danger. He didn't feel safe. _He felt marooned_.

* * *

Will had swallowed a couple aspirin, and was reaching for a glass of water when the phone rang, only heightening the pounding of his head.

'Hello?'

'Hi, Will.'

'Alana?' He felt himself frown as he spoke. 'Is this about the case? Does Jack have another body?'

'No, this isn't an FBI thing.' Her tone dropped, her previous openness replaced by a dull monotone.

He'd offended her by assuming she only wanted to call him about work. Or maybe that he only associated her with work. Will felt a sharp stab of guilt. 'Oh. Are you well?'

'I've been better.' She realised instantly after saying it that it was the wrong thing to say. _Too much for so soon_. 'That isn't why I phoned though, Will. I was glad we met yesterday, for however brief a time. I've missed...'

Will didn't want to hear the rest of her sentence. He wasn't sure how he'd cope. 'Yeah, me too.'

'I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner tonight. Nothing special. I could bring something round to yours, or you could come over? I'll cook, though I can't promise it will be impressive.'

'Yours is probably better.' He thought of Lecter, walking the fields outside. 'I've got a new stray. He doesn't take well to people.'

'How many does this one take you to now?'

'Eight. Eight altogether. And myself.'

'You aren't a stray, Will.' She smiled to herself as she spoke. 'You just haven't found anyone to whom you can belong yet.' Again, she silently cursed herself as she heard the silence on the phone and realised she'd made things too awkward. 'I'll see you later, then.'

'Yeah.' He nodded, before quickly adding, 'Thanks, for calling. If it had been left to me, we'd have been doing this in another year or something.'

It wasn't easy to admit, but he knew it would make her smile.

* * *

She smiled warmly as she opened the door to the ex-Agent that evening, one of the few, genuine smiles to cross her lips over the past few months. She noticed he'd tried dress up, a shirt, a sweater. He almost looked like his old self again, long before the Hobbs case.

'Please, Will.' She gestured inside, holding the door behind her. She felt too wooden, too formal, like she was hosting a grand dinner party rather than merely dinner for a friend.

'I forgot how nice your house was.' He stepped in awkwardly, a bottle in his hand. At her glance, he held it up sheepishly. 'I brought a bottle of wine, got halfway here and remembered that you drink beer. As gifts go, it's pretty awful, but know the thought was there.'

She chuckled. 'You're lucky I have beer in the fridge then. The wine is all yours.'

She was grateful for his mistake, in a way. It seemed to have lightened the tone, reminded them both who the other was. Will Graham, awkward ex-Special Agent, complete with a strange enthusiasm for fishing and the inability to turn a stray from his door. Alana Bloom, psychiatrist, who never quite grew sophisticated enough to put down the beer in exchange for wine, despite the rest of her femininity.

She'd set the mood just right, Will felt. Informal, yet just a slight hint of dress, in case the night went disastrously wrong so they could both pass it off as a work meeting. She looked just right, also, he couldn't help but notice. She'd dug out some of her old clothes, brightly coloured, a change from the dull tones he'd seen her in for the previous few months. She was still pale, her eyes still dark, but the genuine happiness she seemed to have around him almost hid the ill effects the FBI had had on her.

'Do you want beer, Will? Or will you be sticking with your wine?' She called from the kitchen, as she opened a bottle for herself.

'I'll stick with the wine, I think. It might be easier on my head.'

'You were drinking last night then, I guess?' She came back into the dining room from the kitchen, holding an empty glass for her guest and his plate of food. She placed them both in front of him before returning to fetch her own.

'Yeah. Rather a lot, I'm afraid.' He examined the food while she was out the room. He made no comment on the absence of meat in the dish. 'I don't think my liver or my head will be pleased in the morning if I drink too much tonight.'

'Is that what you've been doing these past few months? Drinking?' She said it with a playful smile as she sat down opposite him, but Will knew she was asking more seriously than she was letting on. They were silent while they both ate, merely exchanging glances every so often as if in a bid to entice the other to conversation. Eventually, Alana put down her cutlery and leant forward slightly, arms resting on the table. 'What have you been doing, Will?'

'Nothing, really. With just me and the dogs, I've been able to get by without finding other work.' He couldn't really say how he'd occupied his time. He couldn't remember. _Not before Hannibal_. 'I took fishing up again recently. I have been drinking more, but that's all really. You're still working at the academy though, right?'

'Yes. I took on some of your classes when you left. Not many, just enough to ensure they didn't need to employ anyone else. Jack also asked me to consult on a few of his cases. He was looking for someone to do what you did; he thought I'd be next best, having worked with you, and being a specialist myself. He was disappointed. I could do the looking. I could do the thinking. But, I couldn't do the two together. I couldn't be you. As hard as I tried, I couldn't see past the sad photos of the victims to see what the killer saw in them alive. I couldn't piece the thinking together the way you used to, Will.' She took a sip of beer while toying with her leftover food with her fork. She was trying to find words, Will knew the look. 'Sometimes, I feel I shouldn't even be at the academy anymore. Never mind working on the cases.'

'You're a talented professor, Alana, and the FBI need you. They've been relying on your profiles for months, you deserve your place there as much as anyone.' Will looked up, making brief eye contact with her, before she looked away quickly. 'If you're worried about becoming me, you don't need to. Only I could make myself fall so far so quickly. Jack didn't push me, he won't push you.'

'He's been pushing already.' She sighed. 'But that's not what I meant, Will. How can you say all those things about me when I've been so ignorant? I knew him years; he was my mentor, and a colleague. Not to mention someone I thought of as a friend. How could I not see through him? And how can I try catch a killer I've never met, when I couldn't see Hannibal right in front of me? How can I honestly sit in front of a lecture theatre and teach psychiatry, when I couldn't diagnose him?' She dabbed under her eyes with her fingers, the beginnings of tears glistening in her eyes. 'Ah shit. I thought I did all this months ago. God, I'm so sorry, Will, I doubt this was the sort of evening you were entirely hoping for.'

'Hannibal is different. You could never have seen it. No-one did. He wasn't crazy. He had no motive. He wasn't a loner, or a drifter. No-one could have seen that. Sometimes I think I still don't. He's not a psychopath.'

'He's a monster.'

'He's an artist.' He couldn't help but remember his conversation with Hannibal that morning, and a grim smile through gritted teeth crossed his face. 'The Chesapeake Ripper was a painter, a sculptor. He just worked with death and grief as his materials, rather than canvas and oil. Every death was made to work as a spectacle, something to be in awe at, whether in disgust or shock or pleasure.'

'I'm not sure Jack will be glad to hear that.' Alana shook her head, pressing her hand to her mouth as if trying to force herself to absorb the information without preventing further emotion to escape. 'You sound like you understand him better now. But, you could never empathise with him while you worked on the case.'

'No. I could never understand the lack of motive, the change in technique. But with nothing else to think about, I suppose I eventually got into his head somehow.' _He let me in. _He couldn't ever say that, he finally felt that Alana was seeing him through eyes not distorted by his own instability. 'How is Jack? I haven't seen or heard from him since I left the bureau.'

'He's been struggling. I rarely see him, only if there's a new case. He didn't need the Ripper case when it happened.' At Will's confused face, she frowned. 'Did you not hear about his wife? Bella?'

'Nothing.'

'She died a few months ago. Lung cancer. I thought someone would have told you. Jack was already having problems. Her death tipped him over. He's refusing to see anyone, though.' Will went to apologise, express some sympathy for the absent FBI boss, but the words caught in his throat, swallowed by the silence. The quiet continued while they both took a drink, both trying to work out what next to say. Alana spoke first, breaking the momentary silence. 'Are you stable, Will? Do you feel stable?'

'I thought I did. Or, I was. I don't know anymore.'

'I don't. All the times I tried talking to you about how you felt, I thought I could understand it because I read it somewhere, and I'd studied it, and I'd questioned people, I knew nothing. I thought I could study the mind without really knowing my own. And now I know it too well.' He wanted to respond, he wanted to say something that could comfort her, yet nothing came to him. Instead, he just watched as more tears began to slip down her face, betraying her usual, solid demeanour. 'At night, I see Abigail Hobbs, as she was alive. Talking. Smiling. She's the innocent girl you saved, and I treated. And then I wake, and all I remember that she wasn't innocent. She helped her father just as everyone suspected all along. And I remember that she's dead, and all I can see are her glassy eyes staring at me, and her throat bloody. How was her death art, Will? Hannibal claimed to care for her, and he cut her up like any other of his victims. Where was the art there?'

'He did care for her; he just…had to kill her. The art wasn't in her death, but in what her death would have meant ultimately. Her death was going to be the defining piece in his plan to frame…'

'Frame you,' she whispered, standing up and walking away from the table, hiding her distraught face from Will. 'And everyone would have believed it too. No-one would have questioned why you'd have done it.'

'That's not your fault.'

'I CAN FEEL HER BLOOD ON MY HANDS, WILL.' Alana spun round suddenly, her voice almost at a scream, as if she thought she could chase the feeling away. She frowned once more, trying to get herself under control. When she spoke again, it was barely above a whisper. 'Her blood is all over my hands. It drips wherever I go, leaving this bloody trail that can always be traced back to me, for everyone to see. I can feel all their blood, every single victim that Dr Lecter took that I didn't see. Every Ripper victim. Every copycat victim. Any blood he's spilt has ended up on my hands. Because I didn't see it. I didn't see the murder, the manipulation.'

Will stood too, taking slow steps towards her. 'Alana…'

'How many people do you think he cut up and cooked, Will? How many people did he feed us? Every meal? Because that's a lot. That's more than I can stomach, Will.' She was openly sobbing by now, mascara running down her face like inky tears. 'It took me weeks before I could bear to look at food again. Real food, anyway. Jack still can't. Do you think he knows what he's done to us? Wouldn't you just like to see him again, just to show him the mess he's created? The chaos he left in his 'artistic' wake?'

'No.' He shook his head slowly. 'No, I wouldn't. I know if Lecter showed up again, it isn't this that he'd see. You'd want to show him, you'd desperately want to show him everything he's done, but you couldn't. Because you're not angry at him, you're angry at the Chesapeake Ripper. The copycat killer. Two invented personas. Neither of them truly real in your mind, just fairytale villains. And hard as you try, you could never fully transfer your anger at them to Hannibal. Because he is real. Because when you saw him, you'd see more than the mythical Ripper. You'd see everything you thought he was too. And you'd see reasons he might be who he has become. And he'd disarm you all over again.'

'You aren't angry at him?' She looked up, staring directly at the agent, stood only a few steps away from her.

'I'm furious. I'm also disappointed, and disgusted, and sad, but I can't quite bring myself to feel everything against Hannibal.'

'You know, Freddie Lounds christened you the 'Groom of Frankenstein' during the investigation, when it came to yours and Hannibal's relationship. Did you see that?'

'No, I tried to avoid any piece of Tattle gossip, whether the actual paper or the website, as best I could. I didn't think Freddie Lounds would be very good for me. It seems not.'

'She was the only person who came out of Lecter's house still moral. He couldn't pull his trick on her. She made sure that was in every article she ever wrote.'

'She was wrong.' He remembered Hannibal remarking on it a week or so ago, and the memory caused a sly smile to pass across Will's lips. 'I think I read in one of Lecter's journals that her salad dressing wasn't entirely vegetarian.'

Alana let herself laugh at that, though her cheeks were still damp with the remnants of her tears. The laugh felt bitter, hollow, but it was more than she'd felt in a while. 'If you'd told me a year ago that I'd be laughing at the thought of Freddie Lounds eating human remains, I don't know what I'd have said.'

'If you'd told me a year ago that I'd be stood here with you, when you'd struggled to even be alone in a room with me before, I don't know what I'd have said.'

'I've missed you, Will. I don't think how much I really realised it until yesterday, but I've missed you. You seemed to make the FBI more human. You seem to make everything more human. Even me.' She stepped closer to him, close enough to rest her hand against his face, feeling the brush of stubble beneath her fingertips. 'Especially me, Will.'

She leant up, and kissed him softly on the lips. Barely anything, but enough for each of them to feel the other. Then, slowly, he began to kiss her back. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her the remainder of the distance between them until they were pressed together, and her hands were getting tangled in his hair. The kiss didn't feel like before. Will didn't feel unequal to her, he felt stable. Solid. She wasn't kissing her subject this time. She was kissing him.

She broke it off first, yet remained against his chest, her words barely audible even in the silence. 'You could stay, Will. You could stay here tonight.'

He wanted to nod, to say yes. He wanted to stay with her, his lips to hers, for as long as he possibly could. Yet some part of him couldn't shake the image of Hannibal, his dark eyes pained, the feeling of his arm wrapped tightly around Will's waist only the night before, and the way that had made his heart pound. 'I can't. I'm sorry, but I need to go. The dogs…'

* * *

He cursed himself for the whole drive home, as he remembered Alana's crestfallen face as she closed the door behind him when he left, and he felt the cold hit his cheek where her warm hand had been only moments ago.

* * *

Hannibal was sat in Will's chair, facing the door, when Will finally walked in. The room was dark, with just enough light coming through the windows to illuminate the doctor's high cheekbones and dark eyes.

'You kissed Alana Bloom, Will,' he said slowly, only moments after Will had closed the door. 'I can smell her on you. Too strong for a simple embrace, not strong enough for any other form of act. Nor do you smell of sweat, either hers or your own. Why did you not stay the night?'

'I don't need to explain myself to you,' he snapped, frustrated more at himself than anyone, though Lecter was not helping his mood. 'I'm going to sleep in here tonight. You can take the bed.'

'You don't want to sleep alone knowing you could have had the warmth of Alana Bloom beside you.'

'I just want to sleep in here.' He was too tired for psychology, or philosophy, or whatever Lecter was saying. He was too empty to care.

'Very well, Will. Have a pleasant sleep.'

* * *

Freddie Lounds was sat late in her office when the phone rang. Ordinarily, she could have got one of the lesser reporters to answer it for her. They knew better than to question her. She smiled to herself smugly, they knew better than to question the lead reporter for The Tattler. She didn't miss the old life. The moving around for a good story, the constant need to shock in order to get ratings. Of course, TattleCrime had been fun. She was never censored; she could print what she wanted, when she wanted to. But, it was hardly journalism. Not as she doing now. _And she had the Chesapeake Ripper to thank for it all._

The phone was still ringing. She stood, stretching her legs after being sat at her desk for the past three hours. She ran a hand through her hair as she picked up the receiver.

'Hello. Ms Freddie Lounds at The Tattler speaking.'

No response. She could hear something on the other end. Heavy breathing. _Prank call_.

'Hello?'

'Ms Lounds?' A gruff voice, most likely faked. Definitely male.

'Yes, speaking.'

'Good evening, Ms Lounds.' He continued in the low voice, yet there was some edge of charm to it. She felt like he was watching her over the phone. 'I trust you're having a pleasant evening, Ms Lounds. I'm about to improve it for you. I would like you to fetch a pen and paper and write down the address I am about to give you. After I have given it to you, I want you to leave the building immediately and drive straight to the said address. Do not delay in the slightest. Now, this could be a hoax call. You may not believe me. All I can say is that I am an avid fan of your work, Ms Lounds, and I want to help you out in any way I possibly can. So, I'm about to give you a story, Ms Lounds, and you will not want to miss it for the World.'


	5. Chapter 5

_**I've raised the rating for this chapter. There may be a little Hannigram smut. Just a little...**_

**Chapter 5**

It was early morning when Will Graham sobbed himself awake. In his dreams, he saw Lecter approaching through the window, Abigail Hobbs under his arm, a trail of blood following them as it dripped from her open neck, dead eyes staring. _Accusing_. When his eyes flicked open frantically, he saw the curtains were closed, and the sound of gentle breathing from the other room let him know that Lecter still lay sleeping in his bed. He allowed himself a moment sat alone in the dark room, his face in his hands, wetting his palms with a mix of sweat and tears, before he stood shakily to allow the dogs, pining at his feet, their morning run.

He was met with two sights when he opened the front door. The first was blinding light that took him by surprise and had him shielding his eyes with his arm. The second was Alana Bloom, who was bent down greeting the dogs, before looking up with a sad, guilty smile.

'Hi, Will.'

'You really ought to invest in a louder car,' he said, an element of embarrassment behind his jest. 'That way you might actually catch me when I'm covered.'

'Like I've said, I grew up with brothers. It would take a lot to shock me.'

'You, maybe.'

There was a pause after he spoke, in which the two remained entirely silent, both simply looking at the other, waiting for them to day the words perched on both their lips.

Will broke the silence first, though not how Alana wanted him to. 'Do you want some coffee...?'

'I'm sorry, Will,' she blurted out, unable to maintain such pointless conversation when the night before hung in the air so clearly. 'Last night was wrong of me. My behaviour over the past few days has been awful, actually. I was so glad to see you again, and I meant to invite you over to catch up, but I just used you to make me feel better with my breakdown and then took advantage. That wasn't what I wanted...I'm so sorry.'

'It's ok, you know.' He'd have stepped closer, but was too aware of how little he was wearing. 'I was just as much to blame as you.'

'I think part of me needed you to listen, because you'd understand. But the...kiss was overstepping things. We've done that, and we both know it can't work, and I'm not sure what came over me.' She shook her head while she spoke before sighing. 'I would quite like that coffee though, if it's still on offer?'

'Of course. Come in, it'll give me time to dress. Are you just here to talk or...?'

'I wish.' She followed him in before stopping and frowning. 'Did you sleep in here last night? You slept in your own living room?'

'Erm, yes. I didn't really fancy sorting the bed out once I got back,' he lied, his eyes darting to his bedroom door, which was still shut. Lecter was hopefully still sleeping, then. 'But why are you here, did you say?'

'We've got another body.'

'Then why isn't Jack Crawford here? Why'd he send you? You're just a professor.'

'Was. I was just a professor. I seem to have become some sort of consulting psychiatrist agent now. Jack's left me in charge of this case while he's delayed in court.'

'Is that legal? Or even possible? You aren't FBI trained.' He handed her a cup of steaming coffee and she took it with a gratuitous nod.

'The bureau's going lenient on him what with his wife, and everything. And they think this case is tied to Lecter, someone of whom I'm considered an expert.' She took a small sip, before shrugging. 'Though clearly not expert enough. But you are an expert, and FBI trained. I need you at the scene, Will.'

'I'm not sure. The killer isn't even the Ripper. I'll be useless...'

'Then come and prove everyone wrong.' She smiled, almost shyly as she looked up, well aware of how much she sounded like Jack when she spoke, and how guilty she felt pushing Will back into a situation she'd been outraged at before. But Jack had been right. _The bureau needed Will Graham_. 'Please, Will.'

* * *

He was silent on the drive there. She wanted to say it was because he seemed lost somewhere in his own mind, but she wasn't sure. Will didn't seem lost at all. Maybe he was just disappointed. In Jack, maybe. In her. In how easily she seemed to have forgotten all she previously said in a rush to put him out there once more. When once she was desperate to protect him, now she was willing to risk him again in a bid to help her. _Did he really think that?_ Maybe he was just tired. In which case, Alana knew entirely how he felt.

She pulled up outside the crime scene slowly, before turning off the engine and sitting in the car for a few moments, taking a few deep breaths.

'The body is exactly the same?' The first Will had spoken since they left Wolf Trap. 'The crime scene, the MO, everything?'

'You'll see soon. Are you sure you're alright with this, Will?'

'You asked me, and now I'm here. That's about as sure as you'll find me.'

'Well, we'll search the scene, you can identify any characteristics that may rule out the Chesapeake Ripper and then I'll take you back…' She stopped suddenly, as she spotted a woman leaving the house, led by an agent. Red hair illuminated her pale face, as she spoke angrily to the man gripping her arm and taking her away from the scene. At the sight of her, Alana felt her stomach boil. She quickly unclipped her seat-belt and climbed out the car. 'Excuse me, Will. I'll be right back.'

* * *

Freddie Lounds felt her own temper rising as the agent continued to march her away from the house, _her find_, his grip ever tightening on her upper arm. Snapping, she turned to him. 'I can walk. I don't need to be escorted from the scene. I'm not some common criminal.'

'Miss Lounds.'

The agent stopped at the sound of this new voice, halting Freddie also. It was with a sly smile that she recognised the woman ducking beneath the police tape, before crossing the yard to meet them. 'Dr Alana Bloom, what a surprise. I was expecting Agent Crawford, especially for a scene like this.'

'I wish I was just as surprised to see you.' The smile was unreturned, but Alana's voice did take on an icy edged amusement. 'Special Agent Crawford is occupied elsewhere. I hope that's not too much of a disappointment for you and your avid readers.'

'Not at all. I expect the teaching community has a much more lenient outlook on interviews than the FBI does.' She attempted to step closer as she spoke, yet remained restrained by the other agent. At Alana's nod, he released Lounds' arm. 'So, you've taken over this case then? Big step up for a mere psych guest lecturer. Have you had any form of FBI training, Dr Bloom?'

'Miss Lounds, I am going to politely ask you to leave the crime scene and surrender any photographs and notes you may have taken. Should you refuse, I'll have them forcibly taken from you.'

Freddie ignored her, her gaze focused on Alana's car parked behind her on the driveway to the house. Her eyes narrowed as she continued to stare, as though she'd spotted something of incredible interest. 'You've brought Will Graham to the scene? He quit the bureau months ago.'

'I'd appreciate it if you would just leave, now.'

'You think this is the Chesapeake Ripper.' She smiled once more; illuminating her face like the idea was a light that had just been flicked on behind her eyes. 'The only reason you'd require Will Graham's assistance would be to help catch Hannibal Lecter. He's the only one close enough to understand Lecter's mind. Has he been rehired after his dramatic departure to help catch the Ripper?'

'Will Graham has been brought back as a consulting academic for this one case. The bureau merely requires his expertise; he is not back in employment of the FBI.' Alana sighed, hoping that providing that information would be enough to get rid of Freddie from the scene. 'As for the killer, I am not prepared to say.'

'Do you think it's safe to have Will at a crime scene, given his past mental problems?'

'I'm not going to respond to that.'

'How do you know you haven't just brought the killer back to his crime scene? The FBI put him so close to the Chesapeake Ripper. No, wait, you put him close to the Ripper. You suggested Hannibal as his psychiatrist, didn't you, Dr Bloom?' she asked, watching as Alana grew both more uncomfortable and more furious at her questioning. 'We've all seen Will Graham's instability first hand, one way or another, how do you know he hasn't finally snapped? Continued the work that his good friend, Hannibal the Cannibal, could no longer continue? All those meals at Dr Lecter's, he may have got quite the taste for human flesh. You all might have…'

'If you say one more word, Miss Lounds, I will have you arrested.'

'You can't have me arrested for speaking. Or theorising. And later you can't have me arrested for writing. People deserve the truth about the FBI and its…specialists.' She remained calm as she spoke, forcing Alana to realise she had a grudging respect for the woman, however twisted that seemed to her. 'Besides, I found this crime scene. I found the body. I'm a valuable witness. You need me willing to co-operate. So, how about this? I co-operate fully with the FBI, and you, in exchange for full disclosure on this case. I give you all the photos I've taken, all the notes I have, and I tell you how I found out about the scene, and all I ask for in return is an honest interview with you. It's a good deal, Dr Bloom.'

'It is a good offer.' She mused for a moment, before smiling deceptively sweetly. 'But first have my counter-offer. You co-operate fully with the FBI, detailing everything you know about this scene including how you learnt about it, or I have you arrested.'

'I've told you, you can't have me arrested for…'

'No, not for talking, or writing. But you found this scene, so I trust you entered the house and touched the body. I also trust you weren't wearing any form of forensic protection when you did, so I'll have you done for obstructing justice and tampering with evidence. If that's not good enough for you, I'm sure you've left many fresh fingerprints all over the house. On handles, on surfaces, all over the body. We'll find hairs everywhere. I could have you arrested for murder, Miss Lounds. I doubt you have an alibi. Sat alone in the office all evening, then travelled here, I presume? Flimsy, at best. Plus the fact you haven't yet disclosed how you came to find out about the scene. Struggling journalist rose too high too quickly, lost her main story, needed something fresh to keep her job. Perfect motive.'

'You can't have me arrested for that. You know I'm not the killer…'

'Do I?' Alana raised an eyebrow in feigned curiosity. 'Well, that's my offer, Miss Lounds. It's a good deal, I do recommend you take it.'

'The FBI needs my writing. You need The Tattler. If we collaborated, think how much use you could get from me.' Freddie was rambling now, desperate for any form of co-operation from Alana.

'Please, take a statement, as well as fingerprints and DNA, from Miss Lounds, and then escort her from the premises,' Alana said to the agent besides Lounds, who went to take her arm before she snatched it away with a furious glance. 'It was nice seeing you again, Miss Lounds. Good luck with The Tattler.'

She couldn't keep the anger from her face, or the sharpness from her tone, as she was led away from the scene she had discovered. She wouldn't tell them how, though. _That could be her little secret_.

* * *

'You handled Freddie Lounds well,' Will remarked as he walked up the driveway to Alana after she returned to fetch him from her mild confrontation with the reporter. She looked flustered, yet somewhat animated at the interaction. 'Jack never had much success with her.'

'The longer I spend at these scenes, the more I feel like Jack. The authority, the power, the ever increasing loss of patience…'

'You sound like you're not enjoying it.'

'Trust me, I'm not.' She flashed a badge at the agent waiting outside the front door to the house, gaining a quizzical look from Will, as he followed her inside. 'It's not real. Well, it is a real badge, but it's only temporary. Still no firearms allowed, don't worry.'

'Have they given you any firearms training?'

'Nothing. But as a rule, I'm always surrounded by fully trained agents, so I'm always relatively safe.'

'I could teach you, if you wanted? Nothing major, just the basics.'

'I'd appreciate that. Thank you.' She turned briefly to smile warmly at him, before leading him up the stairs in the house, her tone dropping as she began to fully concentrate on the scene around them. 'OK, victim is Ms Leeds. White female, mid-thirties, single, lived alone. She was found at roughly three this morning by Freddie Lounds who has, as of yet, to reveal her sources. Door wasn't damaged, there's no sign of a forced entry.'

'She knew her killer,' Will whispered, barely aware he'd spoken aloud. His eyes were darting around the walls, taking in every picture, every frame. They both stopped as a crime scene photographer hurried past them downstairs, making Will halt besides a small canvas. His eyes skimmed over the painted words on the landscape backdrop. _Life doesn't get easier, you just get stronger_. He felt his stomach turn.

'Yes, we think so. Katz, Zeller and Price are still with the body.'

* * *

The three were in the bedroom when Alana led Will in. Beverly smiled broadly, the sight odd in the dark room, its curtains drawn, the only light stemming from the bedside lamp and the FBI equipment. Price looked up from the body at Will's entrance, glancing up long enough to give an awkward nod of the head. Zeller didn't move; his gaze fixed on anything in front of him that meant he didn't have to face Graham.

'Dr Bloom. Will.' Beverly stood up from where she was crouched over the bed with a handheld UV light, and walked over to them in the doorway. 'You feeling OK, Will?'

'Yes, I wish everyone would just stop asking.' In reality, his head was starting to pound, and he could feel a light sweat building on his forehead, but he didn't need the concern.

'What have you got?' Alana asked lightly, trying to direct as much attention from the Graham as possible in a bid to relax him.

'Not much. We've got fingerprints and hairs on the body, but they all match Freddie Lounds, unfortunately. Before that, the body would have been clean, must have been wiped down. Either that or he was wearing a lot of protective gear. He was careful to leave no DNA. Meticulous.'

'Well, he left some DNA. Semen. But I doubt we can track it. If he left it, it means he isn't in the database. Or he doesn't think he is,' Price called out, still bent over the corpse.

'Son of a bitch,' Zeller cursed, under his breath.

'There's a lot of blood, but it's most likely all belonging to Ms Leeds. As to anything else, it's the same as the last case. The house wasn't broken into, no damage to the door or the windows. We found a bottle of wine downstairs with two glasses, one full, one empty.'

'Expensive wine, too. Some of that ridiculously posh red stuff.' At Beverly's sharp glance, Price shrugged. 'What can I say? I'm a beer guy, myself. Never understood the love of decade old wine in a fancy bottle.'

'Freddie Lounds' prints are all over everything, but excluding her again, we only got prints off the full glass of wine. We recovered tissue from Ms Leeds, and a high amount of blood, from the bottle.'

'He used it to assault her.'

Katz nodded solemnly. 'But still no fingerprints. We think he brought the bottle with him. Some sort of creepy gift.'

'Bit different to the Chesapeake Ripper.' Will couldn't stop the words leaving his mouth bitterly. 'He never tried to seduce his victims. Just kill them.'

'Not that different to Hannibal Lecter, though. He tried to seduce everyone.' Zeller looked up this time as he spoke, his eyes boring into Will. 'Glass of expensive wine while he rapes and mutilates a woman's body, sounds like a dick enough move for him.'

'Hannibal Lecter did not kill this woman.'

'I have a bunch of evidence here that says otherwise.'

'Circumstantial.'

'Still better than what you've got.'

'Cut it. Now, 'Alana interrupted, feeling herself snap while she stared at Zeller. She placed a hand on Will's shoulder lightly, noticing him flinch slightly at the touch. She lowered her voice as she spoke. 'We're going to leave you here, Will. You call if you need anything, or if you have anything you need us to know.'

'Got it.' He took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for something more than being left in the room.

'And Will,' she whispered, leaning in closer so as to avoid any eavesdropping. 'Don't push yourself too far. I don't want to lose you here. If you can't see anything unless you get close, than I'd rather you didn't see anything.'

'Yeah…thanks.' He shook his head, not really listening, already feeling the darkened room begin to close around him, the photos on the wall jump out at him. _Life doesn't get easier, you just get stronger. _His head was thudding.

He closed his eyes, a breath caught in his throat. And as he released it slowly, he saw.

* * *

'_I am greeted on the doorstep after knocking the door with a gloved hand. I'm expected. I'm a guest. I step over the threshold smoothly. I know my way around this house, not through spying or stalking, but through frequent visitation. I'm trusted. A friend. Perhaps one of the only friends Ms Leeds has. Or will ever have.'_

'_I'm led into the kitchen, where I produce a bottle of expensive, red wine from behind my back. It looks like a gift. Indeed it is. But not for Ms Leeds. I keep hold of the bottle, still wearing my outside gloves, pouring the wine steadily into the two glasses Ms Leeds puts in front of me. She takes her glass and has a singular sip. I take my glass and drink the entire contents, causing Ms Leeds to put down her own glass in shock. This is what I was waiting for. '_

'_I take the wine bottle from the side and strike Ms Leeds in the side of the head. It's not a fatal blow, despite the heavy bottle and mass spill of blood, but is enough to ensure that, without urgent medical care, she will not awake again. This is my design. I replace the bottle, and pick Ms Leeds up from the floor delicately. I do not want to further damage her. I want her body whole.'_

'_I carry her to the bedroom and place her on the bed. Restraints are not necessary; she will never be truly alive again. From there, I begin to prepare the body. I smash both the mirror in the bathroom, and the long mirror in the bedroom. From each of these, I take a piece and lodge them in the eye sockets of the body. With other mirror shards, I slice open the face, disfiguring it, until the features are almost non-recognisable. She is no longer Ms Leeds. She is nothing now. And soon she will be mine. The remaining mirrors, I cover with various dark clothing items I can find in the drawers. The curtains are already closed. Now, I can begin.' _

Will was shaking as he remained stood alone in the crime scene. Sweat was trickling down his face, his mind closing in on itself, as if trying to cut off all thoughts that would come next.

'_I keep all clothes on, including my gloves, as I assault the body. I wear no protection. This makes the body mine. My property. This is my design. After, I begin the hardest task. The removal of the heart. It can't be messy. I mustn't damage it. I brought my own equipment, kept tucked in my pocket. The work takes me some time, but no longer than the last one took. Each removal becomes easier. Quicker. Ms Leeds is gone now. Her body is dead. Her mind is dead. She is mine now. Everything of her belongs to me. This is all mine.'_

* * *

His eyes had flickered open as his mind churned, the body on the bed on full display to him. The blood that lay drying on the pale sheets. The body, contrastingly clean, apart from the closed wound on the chest from the organ removal.

Except now the neck gushed blood, and glassy eyes stared at him from an unmarked, pale face, dark hair merging with dark blood. _Abigail_.

He climbed onto the bed. He needed to stop the bleeding. Hold the neck. _He could save her_. He felt his hands meet the damp blood, his palms sticky with the crimson mess on the sheets.

And then he wasn't looking at Abigail any longer. The hair was short, fallen out of place from its usual pristine condition. High cheekbones. Cold lips. Dark eyes with a reddish tint only truly visible in the dim light, but glassy. Dead. _Not Hannibal. Not him._

Will climbed from the bed quickly, panting, backing away into a corner, before pulling at the door into the corridor. He was met with the stares of the agents, and the concerned glance of Alana Bloom, whose eyes were drawn to the damp patches of blood on his jeans, and his stained hands.

'Will? Will, what's wrong?'

'He's contaminated the scene. He's contaminated the whole fucking scene, that's what's wrong.'

'For God's sake, Zeller, shut up.' Beverly felt herself murmur, yet she was fully fixed on Will the whole time.

Will remained stood still, his body shaking, his hands out in front of him, the blood clearly visible from the bed. Alana desperately wanted to try protect him, to hold him, yet instead took a deep breath. _Not here._ 'Zeller, Price, Katz, get back in there and keep working. You have Will's ID on system, it'll be easy enough to rule him out for anything. Will, you need to get cleaned up, and you need to go. I can get someone to drive you home, and you can explain everything tomorrow.'

He wanted to apologise, to explain. Anything to rid himself of their stares and questions, yet his throat seemed to be choking on the words, like a noose around a hangman. He merely nodded.

* * *

Even after washing the blood off, and having his fingerprints taken again by Beverly, just to be sure he could be ruled out; he couldn't erase the feeling of it from his hands. Nor could he rid himself of the smell. The coppery, sickly smell seemed to be clinging to him, circling him, filling his nose, blocking his head. He thought he would be used to the scent, but it still disgusted him. Or maybe it was the images that came with it that nauseated him.

He was grateful to be in Wolf Trap again, after what seemed like so long a day, yet had been little more than a few hours. Though the night sky hung when before it had been morning. Maybe the day had been as long as it felt. He needed aspirin, yet was too intimidated to ask the agent driving the car, who hadn't been quick enough to hide the look of disgust when he'd seen who he'd have to drive back. Will couldn't blame him. He doubted the talk of him at the academy was all very positive. _Life doesn't get easier, you just get stronger_.

He needed to be home.

* * *

Hannibal watched the car pull up outside Will's house with little interest. He knew where Will had gone that morning; he could smell Alana Bloom's perfume the moment she had stepped through the door. He also had not been asleep when Will had left, he'd just thought better of alerting Will to that fact. The car didn't wait long, just sat parked long enough for Will to almost stumble out, and begin a slow trudge to the house, before driving off in a cloud of relieved dust. Dr Bloom hadn't driven Will home then, that was interesting. He wondered what had happened at the crime scene. Hidden beneath his curiosity was a note of worry, like an askew note in a carefully composed symphony.

The agent sighed heavily as he entered the house to see Hannibal standing in the kitchen area. He nodded tiredly, as though greetings were still necessary despite the living situation. 'Dr Lecter.'

'I've cooked for you, Will. Though I'm afraid I had to make do once more with whatever I could find in your cupboards. So, I'm serving fish.' In reality, he was rather proud of the reasonable dish he'd managed to put together from the few ingredients he'd managed to locate, though he kept that from showing to Graham.

'How did you know when I'd be getting back? Did you even know I would be coming back here?'

'I estimated a time. I guessed since you turned down the company of Dr Bloom last night, you don't trust me here alone, and would be unlikely to leave me here tonight instead.'

'I turned down Alana for other reasons…' He stammered, swallowing a couple of tablets he retrieved from his desk. The copper smell from his hands was still clogging his head. 'How do you know where I've been, anyway?'

'You've been assisting on a crime scene; your killer's left another body. I watched the FBI car drop you outside just now, and I can smell blood, most likely from where it's soaked through your jeans. What happened?' He'd stopped cooking now, his eyes solely fixed on Will's, his voice low, trying his best to show his concern. 'What happened at the crime scene, Will?'

He wanted to answer. He wanted to talk. But he couldn't rid himself of the sight of Hannibal on the bloody bed, dark eyes staring empty. 'I need a shower.'

* * *

He wanted the water to trickle red as he showered, just to let him know the blood was truly coming off. But it stayed clear, and the smell continued to linger, no matter how hard he scrubbed. _He felt tainted._

He was too tired to dress. Too tired for anything other than to curl up somewhere and close his eyes, and hope the images that came to him were not those of the scene earlier. He didn't think that would be possible, though. His stomach gurgled, hungry despite the nausea that passed over him when his mind chose to relive the day. And he needed to talk to someone. No, not someone. He needed to talk to Hannibal. He eventually dressed himself after the shower in his nightwear, anything else seemed too restricting, and sat at the table Hannibal had prepared for them. The doctor sat opposite, remaining silent, yet his gaze questioning.

He eventually spoke after watching Will eat for a moment or so. 'Tell me about the crime scene, Will. What happened for you to be covered in so much blood? Is it the victim's? Yours?'

'I don't know what happened. It's the victim's. I…climbed onto the bed where the body was, it's just the damp blood from the sheets.'

'Did you think you were her killer?'

'No. I knew who I was.' _I just didn't know who she was_, he wanted to say, but it felt too exposed. Too real.

Hannibal knew anyway. 'Then you hallucinated, didn't you? You saw the body and put another in its place. Was it Abigail Hobbs?'

'I thought I could save her,' he whispered, the sight of her flashing briefly, burning, in his mind. 'I thought if I was quick enough, I could save her.'

Lecter leant forward as Will spoke, searching his face carefully. 'What else did you see, Will? You saw more than just Abigail lying on that bed, didn't you?'

Will frowned, his gaze moving to the window, looking out over the fields in some sort of desperate search for comfort as he spoke, like a character in a classic novel. He found none. 'It was my first crime scene since Abigail. The first house since…'

'Since mine.' Lecter prompted, when Will seemed to struggle with the words. He nodded in some form of gratitude.

'I was expecting to see Abigail somewhere. But not there. Not so real. I could see the blood pouring from her neck, her eyes just staring, the blue boring into me like I was…guilty. But it was more than Abigail. I climbed onto the bed, I wanted to save her, and then it wasn't Abigail who lay under me.' He couldn't think of a way to say it, not properly, not how it needed to be said. So he said it plainly, 'I saw you. The victim was you.'

There was a momentary pause that lasted a lifetime, so quiet that the silence seemed deafening to Will. Then Hannibal broke it, his voice soft. 'You replaced the murder victim with someone you lost who mattered to you, Will. Then, you realised you could not save her, you replaced her with the one who took her from you. I trust it felt good.'

'No. No, it didn't feel good. It felt nothing like that.' He laughed, a pained laugh that seemed to spring from his own, twisted realisation. 'It…hurt. It hurt a lot. It hurt more than seeing Abigail lying there. Seeing you caused more pain than seeing her.' He stood as he paused, walking away from the table to face the wall, so as not to see Lecter when he spoke. 'The scene wasn't just a normal house. It was so dark. So full of death. More than just the murder. Everything seemed to be covered in this layer of death and depression, like a dust that had settled. The victim…Ms Leeds had these little canvases and magnets all over the house, with these sad, little messages on. The kind you hang up when you're trying to convince other people that you're happy, but all you do is make yourself seem more sad.' _Life doesn't get easier, you just get stronger._

'So you took on this feeling of death and saw two people who you believe to be dead?'

'You're not dead…'

'Not me, now. Though to you, an essence of me died when you found Abigail Hobbs. You found yourself grieving for the two lives you lost then: that with Abigail, and that with myself.'

'No, it was more than that.' He couldn't articulate it, not as it needed to be. He thought about the killer, the feeling of the glass in his hands, the skin beneath his gloved tips. _Mine_. 'The killer wanted to take the victim. He wanted her to become his. He took away every essence of Ms Leeds that made her her own person. He needed her to belong to him.'

'What do you have that belongs to you, Will?' Lecter stood also, closing the space between them as he followed Will's footsteps.

'The closest I ever came to having anything of my own, truly my own, was Abigail.' He looked straight back at Hannibal, eyes unblinking. 'And you. I saw the two people I could almost claim as mine.'

'Could almost claim?'

'Abigail is dead.'

'Yes. Am I dead also, Will?'

'No.' _Life doesn't get easier, you just get stronger. _

He wasn't sure whether his next actions were the result of his own feelings of mortality that he had brought back from the crime scene with him, the presence of death that seemed to be upon him, the loss that he needed to shed like old skin. Or whether they were merely due to the way Hannibal continued to stare at him, dark eyes caring rather than cruel, the red reflections a homing, rather than warning, light. He watched his own hand slip around the back of Hannibal's neck, uncontrolled, resting there as he leant up and placed soft lips against those of the doctor. He wondered if it was some sort of hallucination as his lips lingered there for a second, barely touching Hannibal's. Then, he felt two hands snake around his back, and the kiss became harder. More real. And he needed Hannibal closer, his fingers raking his hair as he pulled him in. _Mine_.

Will wanted Hannibal to be rough. He wanted to feel the fingerprints digging into his skin, hard enough to leave purple bruises he could count in the morning. He wanted to feel him bite so hard he drew blood and Will could taste it on his tongue. But Hannibal knew better. _He always knew better._ He ran soft fingers over Will's skin, just enough to be felt, placing lips gently on his bare chest as he moved gradually lower, grazing his teeth lightly against the underside of Will's cock as he took him in his mouth and he felt the agent's body shudder beneath him. When Hannibal finally entered him, he thrust slowly, keeping their bodies as close of possible, their breath almost synchronised as they moved together. It wasn't entirely harmonious, yet neither felt a discord. And when they both climaxed, their bodies sticky with sweat and sex, Will couldn't help but entwine their fingers.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Like I mentioned before, I've based the killer on Francis Dolarhyde, the killer in Thomsas Harris' 'Red Dragon' novel. However, he is not a complete copy. I have altered both aspects of his murders and his personality, to fit the story. Enjoy.**_

**Chapter 6**

Over a thousand miles away, at the same moment FBI profiler Will Graham was leaving desperate kisses over the body of the country's most wanted serial killer, a cold wind blew through a large, rotting house stood on the outskirts of Springfield, Missouri. The building couldn't be more different to the city; rotting while the city continued to live and thrive, falling slowly to pieces while Springfield built upon itself, a house full of ghosts as compared to the thousands of people only a mile or so away. It used to be a nursing home, thirty or forty years ago, taking in those who fell behind life's pace and taking care of them until Death caught up with them. Even then, however, the house had not felt so haunting, despite the presence of the horseman lurking in the shadows so often. Sadly, after years of doing what she considered her duty to those who needed her, the owner of the house began to slip behind life herself, the echoing of Death's footsteps ringing in her ears. On her death, the house remained empty for years, except for the mould growing steadily through the walls, and the nesting rodents whose numbers increased every year. Then, unnoticed by the whole of Springfield, the house was no longer empty, though the city would soon wish it were.

Cain Wesson sat pensively on a moth-eaten chair, hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, completely submerged in darkness. The room had once been a study; an old desk still remained in the centre of the room, though he'd thrown the chair that went with it out. It smelt too strongly of the previous resident, the sickly perfume still lingering like some sick, starving creature. There was a smashed light hanging from the ceiling, though he hadn't replaced that yet. Wesson didn't mind the dark. His mind shone bright enough. _His mind was burning flame and explosive heat. A beacon in the ever expanding gloom._

After a minute more in the darkness, he reached down to the paper he'd thrown angrily at his feet earlier, and sat back as he reread the earlier infuriating article. The dark would have hindered a normal being's ability to decipher the small, black print, but not him. _He was more than human_. A smile crept over his dry lips as such a thought passed through his mind, before turning back to the article.

'The doctor's making house calls.' He read the title aloud, feeling the words echo around the empty room, bouncing off the plain walls and rough floor. He liked the sound. Though he preferred his own company to that of others, the echo provided the feeling he required occasionally of company. 'The Chesapeake Ripper has made a chilling return these past few weeks with the murder and mutilation of two women in their own homes.' He liked the use of the word 'mutilation'; it took him back to his high school years when they'd taught him about the North Americans. They scalped their victims. _Mutilated them._ He felt like he was paying homage. 'Dr Hannibal 'the Cannibal' Lecter went missing over six months ago after it was revealed by the FBI that he was the infamous Chesapeake Ripper, and it was discovered exactly what he was doing with the organs he took from his victims, previously considered surgical trophies…'

The rest of the article was basic, boring really. Wesson sighed. He'd trusted Freddie Lounds to be inventive. He'd even handed the second body to her on a plate, perfectly gift wrapped. Even left the door open so she could just walk straight in. He'd been expecting exact details, hyperbolic gore and horror, appreciation of his artwork. But nothing. Nothing was in the article, besides the basic police information. Maybe he should have chosen a better reporter. Though Freddie had been so good with the Chesapeake Ripper case. And the Minnesota Shrike, thought that was when she was still just an internet journalist. She'd truly…_cared_ about those cases. Wesson hoped he was attracting that same level of dedication. He deserved it.

There weren't even any crime scene photos in the article, that's what frustrated Wesson the most. Freddie Lounds always took photos of crime scenes, she couldn't resist. And he'd ensured the scene would be perfectly photogenic. He'd even tried to choose a victim who would look good in the photos. But nothing.

Though he had to say, he loved the photo of Lecter that she'd included. He hadn't seen that one be used before. It was a close up shot of his face, recent, must have been one she had taken from one of the FBI cases he'd assisted on. It was so clear; Wesson could make out the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the dark stare of his eyes, even the design of the suit he was wearing, though only the shoulders were visible. The background was blurred though, everything else nothing but a mess of smudges and pixels, everything but him. _This was a picture to keep_.

Wesson stood, the paper still in hand and he walked over to the desk. He laid the paper flat on the wooden surface, and picked up the pair of scissors he'd already left there. Carefully, he cut the picture of Hannibal from the paper, as well as the article, after a moment or so of thought. Then, he opened the desk drawer and took out a large, leather bound book. Opening to a fresh page, he glued the article down to the thick paper, smoothing it carefully to ensure it was fully stuck. It wasn't as good as the articles from the first killing, but he had faith. Freddie was bound to write more. Maybe she just needed to appease the FBI first, write something uncontroversial, before she could write what she truly saw. Yes, that would be it. Maybe she'd even had her camera taken from her. That would make sense regards the lack of crime scene photos. Of course.

Smiling, he closed the book, and reopened it on the first page. Hannibal Lecter stared back at him, from tens of black and white newspaper clippings, enough to cover the entire page. Headlines from months ago screamed at him in big bold writing. _Chesapeake Ripper Identified. Prominent Psychiatrist's Identity Revealed. Hannibal 'the Cannibal' Escapes._

'Hello, Dr Lecter,' he whispered, as he stuck the new picture carefully in the centre of the page, just covering the corner of an old article. He ran his finger over it hard, smoothing it down, before running it over the image of Lecter's face softly. Caressing. 'I'm sure you were scared they'd forgotten you.'

The Ripper cases had always fascinated Cain Wesson. More than the sheer number of bodies the police had found, it was the art behind the deaths. The way the Ripper killed, it was inspiring. The number of different ways he had to make each death more shocking than the last was just…_breath-taking_. Sometimes though, Wesson felt he could have done with sticking to one method of death. So the FBI always knew it was him. His signature, in a way. Though the Ripper could get away with changing method so much. He was beautiful in that way.

In the back of Wesson's mind, however, was always the worry that the true identity of the Ripper wouldn't live up to his alter-ego. That he'd turn out to be some mentally damaged, unemployed, middle aged man who'd lived with his parents until they died, and he'd kill the beauty and mystery of the Ripper. Even Abel Gideon had been a bit of a disappointment, when Lounds claimed he was the true Chesapeake Ripper. He may have been a successful doctor, and a cruelly intelligent man, but he'd murdered his family in the heat of the moment. That wasn't the Ripper. Cain refused to believe it.

And then Hannibal Lecter had shown up. And instantly, Wesson was won over. A Lithuanian surgeon, turned psychiatrist, approached by the FBI themselves to assist on cases. This was someone who deserved the Chesapeake Ripper's title. This was someone who, maybe, deserved more. Intelligent, ruthless, charming, with the dark profile of a Renaissance Prince_. He fed the FBI on their own cases. _Wesson loved him. The first and only person he ever had.

He brought every paper that covered the Ripper's story. Recorded every TV segment. Learnt everything he could. Then, he watched in horror as the months passed and the interest in Lecter began to wane. _No_, he'd wanted to scream, _follow Lecter, watch Lecter, he's the only one that matters._ But slowly, the articles thinned, the pictures disappeared, and the FBI continued as ever while Cain Wesson sat in his home, his heart broken as he felt Lecter growing distant from him once more. No matter how many times he reread the articles, or watched the news stories, he couldn't reignite the connection he had felt with Lecter. It was dying, like an ember . Until one day, he'd sat up, eyes flashing brightly, as he realised what he could do.

_He could become the Chesapeake Ripper_.

He knew what to do. He knew how to kill the victims to ensure the journalists thought of the Ripper instantly. He knew to demonstrate surgical ability. To take the organs. He cooked and ate both hearts the evening after the murders. Though nowhere near as well as he was sure Lecter did. But, he also elevated the deaths. Made them better. Grander. Beyond that of any mere mortal. _He could elevate the Ripper to that of his deserved place. To that of a God._

Lecter killed three at a time. Always three. Then a break. So far, Wesson had killed two. The third would elevate him, truly make him the Chesapeake Ripper. But there could only be one Ripper.

_His third victim must be Dr Hannibal Lecter_. Cain stared down once more at the page before him, at the dark eyes that seemed to glitter from the still, black and white photos. It saddened him to think such thoughts. But they couldn't both live. And Wesson had it in him to make them both so much more. It would be foolish to ignore such potential. Lecter would agree, he knew he would. With his death, he could cement the place for the new Ripper. One to continue on Lecter's legacy, but at a greater level. Wesson smiled as he thought about it, his fingertips still brushing absentmindedly over the newspaper cuttings.

But, first, he needed to find the Chesapeake Ripper.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Will lay awake the next morning on the bed, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. Against his bare legs, he could feel the warmth of the morning sun that had snuck into the room via the slit in the curtains, enough to keep a chill from him. On the plain surface above him, he stared at the imperfections visible. The dents. The scratches. The unexplainable marks that appear on all white coated surfaces, no matter how high. _Inevitability_. He couldn't help but wonder if everything had some degree of that to it. _Even him_. The whole house was silent, apart from the regular exhalation of breath from two sets of lungs in unison, letting Will know, without moving, without even turning his head slightly, that Hannibal was lying there thinking the same.

They lay in silence. _Strange_. But, it was what Will wanted. What he needed. His head felt clear, completely free from any form of thought, as though Hannibal had absorbed all his worry and fear in his touch the night before. And now Will could just lie, and stare, and be strangely content.

The phone rang from the kitchen. He considered letting it continue, ready to ignore every attachment to the outside World that threatened the peace he was feeling, until he remembered the day before, and realised who it would be on the line. Hannibal watched with half-closed eyes as Will stood, unclothed except his tight briefs, and went to answer the demanding ring of the machine in the adjacent room. After a minute or two, he followed the agent's footsteps.

'Alana Bloom wants me in the bureau. She needs me to talk through the case with her,' Will said, though whether to the other man or to himself was not entirely clear. 'Jack's also coming in. He wants to see me.'

'You said Jack Crawford didn't work at the academy anymore.' Hannibal remarked, remaining standing while Will sat at the table, the phone still in his hand.

'He still works there, he just avoids it. He struggles coping so only ever goes in when he's really needed.'

'And he's really needed on this case?' The doctor began making coffee in the kitchen as he spoke, strangely alert given the time, preparing it as carefully as he used to in his own home.

'No, he's really needed with me. Or, at least, Alana thinks he is.' Will sighed, shaking his head slightly. 'I messed up the crime scene yesterday. I don't blame her for being worried.'

'She's worried you're relapsing. She's more worried it'll be her, and not Jack, who pushes you over this time.' He brought the coffee over, placing a mug in front of Will, who took it with a silent nod of the head as Lecter sat opposite him. 'She's not the only one who's worried about you.'

He gave a small smile at that, more genuine than he'd planed it to be. 'I feel better than I have done in a long time. I feel clear. Free. I'm not ill.'

'I can still worry about you, and what this case may hold for you, Will. I want to help.'

'I'm not too sure Jack would be all too thrilled if I told him I had the Chesapeake Ripper on hand to consult about the case. Especially as the whole bureau remains convinced it's the Ripper behind these killings.'

'You can bring the case file to me, Will. I can build a psychological profile of your killer.'

'Alana Bloom can do that.'

'You say the whole bureau remains convinced that these works are the crimes of the Chesapeake Ripper, is that right?' Hannibal asked, taking a small sip of the steaming coffee as Will nodded reluctantly. 'Which suggests one of two things: either these killings are the work of the Chesapeake Ripper, something the whole bureau excluding you believes to be perfectly reasonable, or you have a copycat killer who is desperate to make sure the Ripper remains at the front of people's minds.' He waited for the suggestion to sink into Will's mind, watching carefully as his eyes seemed to light slowly with realisation. 'Dr Bloom is a good psychologist. But she's at the front of this investigation, blinded by everything she sees. You need someone else to help you see this killer's face, Will.'

'And you think you will be able to do that with just the case file?' Graham asked, trying to remain sceptical, though everything he said was making sense.

'If you're investigating a copycat killer inspired by the Chesapeake Ripper, then I must accept responsibility for the crimes. I need to help you, Will. Let me.' He reached across the table, his hand resting lightly on top of Will's, the first contact they'd had since the night before. Just the tiny amount of bare contact made Will feel like he was burning up once more, all the heat from last night in one small touch. 'I care about you, Will; I don't want you getting caught in this as you've been caught before. I want you to remain free, just as you said you feel now.'

'I'm free now only because I've caught you.' The words slipped from his mouth before he had chance to stop them. He watched the other man's face as he spoke, yet his expression didn't seem to change.

'Free in the same way a mongoose is after catching a snake? Free from danger? Free from the threat of harm?'

'No. Free the way a child is after catching a snowflake in the palm of his hand. As long as that snowflake remains, the World is pure and whole. While the child stares at that snowflake sitting in his hand, he's free from corruption, and pollution, and falsehood.'

'Snowflakes melt, eventually.'

_Not this one_, he wanted to say. He tried forming the words with his mouth, but found them catching in his throat like cotton wool. Maybe it would be the wrong thing to say, anyway. Too cliché, like some line from a black and white Hollywood picture._ Too open._ He settled for just placing his free hand over Hannibal's and squeezing gently, hoping that would convey what his mouth could not.

* * *

Alana Bloom stood outside Jack's office, arms folded, tapping one foot nervously on the floor as she waited. She wasn't worried about seeing Jack, she'd handled him at his worst times before, she could do so again. And besides, he was hardly a formidable foe any longer, as melancholic as such a thought was. She was more worried for Will Graham's fate, both at Jack's and her own hands. Alana wondered if he'd even show up. Under his circumstances, she doubted she would. She hadn't seen him that scared at a crime scene in a long time. It wasn't a sight she'd ever expected to see.

Bloom glanced down at her feet as she thought, as if looking for any form of distraction from her own thoughts. When she looked back up again, she was met with the sight of the FBI profiler and she felt herself give a small sigh of relief.

'Will, I'm so glad you're here.' She approached him, putting her arms around him to pull him into a tight embrace. He was stiff against her, unsure of how to react to such unexpected a display of affection. After a moment or so, she let him go, aware of his awkward reaction. 'I'm sorry; I've been worried about you. I wasn't sure if you were coming today.'

'It's fine. You rang this morning though, you asked me to be here.'

'I know, but with yesterday…I just wasn't sure if you would.' She stopped speaking as two students walked past them, allowing Will to see the worry that had painted itself clearly across her face. 'I haven't ever seen you as scared as you were yesterday, Will. It worried me. It's still worrying me.'

'Which is why you got Jack in,' he said, monotonously, almost with a grimace. 'You think I'm losing it again.'

'No. I'm not trying to attack you here. I didn't get Jack in to ambush you, Will. But I am worried. You can understand that, surely? I want to solve this case, but I'm not willing to risk your health to put you out there.'

'You'd rather people keep dying?'

'I'm your friend, Will, and your colleague. I care about you. So, yes, I'd rather people keep dying than risk you relapsing, as bad a person as that may make me sound.'

For the second time that day, he couldn't seem to make himself talk. His mind seemed blank beyond the simplest of words. _Thank you_. That didn't feel enough though. Not for the honesty that seemed to glaze her eyes. So, once more, he made do with taking her hand, and she smiled at his touch. It was enough to make him smile also, despite what he now had to face with Jack.

* * *

It was another few minutes before Agent Crawford arrived, leading the other two members of staff into his office as though he were the Head of a school, rather than an FBI department. Alana managed to retain some authority as she followed, asserting in her direct stare that she was not under his control anymore. Will followed blindly, too absorbed in his own mind to make any points to Jack.

It wasn't until Jack sat behind the desk, facing the two, that he finally spoke, looking directly at the profiler. 'So, Will, I've already heard from Dr Bloom here. Would you like to tell me now what the Hell happened yesterday at the crime scene?'

'Nothing happened. I got scared. I panicked. It's happened before.' He couldn't help but observing Jack as he spoke, taking in all the changes that had occurred since he'd last been in the bureau. He'd clearly lost weight. A lot of weight. It aged him, loose skin hanging from his neck. His face was lined, the wrinkles deeper than before, visible even when his face was relaxed. Loss had changed Jack Crawford. Loss and betrayal. Though only physically, it seemed, he seemed just as fiery as ever, perhaps more so, now he felt he had already hit his life's rocky bottom.

'Last time it happened, you had encephalitis. But you got better, I thought, so what happened this time?'

'Nothing happened. I just got…carried away in this killer's head. It won't happen again.' He shrugged, desperate to avoid saying anything that could further worry Alana, or further inflame Jack.

'This killer? You mean the Chesapeake Ripper.' Crawford frowned, leaning slightly forward, elbows on the desk, his eyes dark.

'I don't think the killer is the Chesapeake Ripper. Not this time.'

'Do you have any reasons why you think these killings, committed entirely in the style of Hannibal Lecter including organ removal, are not his work? Or do you just not feel it?' He was mocking, cruelly biting into his words, as if that would make the concept behind them any easier to stomach.

'The killings bare all the marks of someone trying to convince everyone he is the Chesapeake Ripper. That doesn't mean the killer is the Chesapeake Ripper.' Will looked over at Alana as he spoke. 'Alana agrees with me.'

'Do you, Dr Bloom?' Jack asked, an eyebrow raised, both curious as to Will's informal referral and to the slightly guilty look that had spread across her face.

'I can't say I'm definite, but we can't rule a different killer out, Jack. It would be foolish and reckless.' She was trying to remain light, offending neither party, yet needing to make her point. 'Though I'm aware of how similar these cases are to past killings committed by the Ripper.'

'And this is what you think?' He was looking back at Will now. 'These killings bare all the hallmarks of the Ripper. What reasons can you possibly have to think otherwise?'

Graham stood, not quite feeling at ease discussing the case with Jack, knowing full well he was about to repeat the words of the man Jack thought to be the killer. 'The bodies were both found in their own homes. There was no public display. That's not how the Ripper killed.'

'So he's testing the water, getting his name back out there to see what sort of reaction he'll get. See how far the FBI will go in continuing the investigation,' Jack suggested, his answer clearly already prepared, as if he'd been expecting the question. 'Besides, the second body was found by Freddie Lounds. He could have tipped her off. We know Lecter was a great reader of TattleCrime before.'

'Both victims were killed the exact same way. The Chesapeake Ripper has never killed two people identically. That would be boring, following too great a pattern. It would ruin his art.'

'Except for Cassie Boyle and Marissa Schuur. He killed both of those by mounting those on antlers.'

'That was the copycat…'

'Who we now know to be Hannibal Lecter, also the Chesapeake Ripper.'

'Two different personas.'

'Still one man.' Jack could feel Will's frustration across the room. _He really didn't believe this was Hannibal's work_. _Or he didn't want to believe_. 'Besides, it's his first publicised kill in months, he could simply be testing us once more. We know he likes to do that.'

'Liked to do that.' Will corrected, before turning to meet both Jack and Alana's frowns. 'Like you said, he hasn't killed for months. He may have completely stopped now he's been caught. Lost the ability. Or the taste.'

'You expect me to believe that the man who we know to have killed nine people and _fed_ them to his associates, for no reason than his own personal satisfaction, has now lost his taste for killing?'

'I don't know, maybe.' Even to Will, it sounded implausible. He could understand the outrage threatening to boil over in Jack's voice. And yet he knew he was right. _He knew it_. 'There's also the sexual assault. That's not the Ripper.'

'He hasn't killed in months. He's on the run. Angry. Frustrated. He needs a release that's more than just killing someone. He ups his game.'

'What? At the same time as he's trying to test the water? It's ridiculous. Grotesque. He wouldn't do that. Dr Lecter isn't like that.' He could feel his temper rising, he needed to shout. Scream. Jack felt like an iron wall constructed across a straight road. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't break him. _But he needed to keep trying._

Alana noticed something though, she had a sharp glint in her pale eyes as she looked over at the agent. 'Will, is it possible you're letting your past relationship with Dr Lecter, whether as your doctor, or your colleague, or even your friend, confuse you in this case? Could this be Hannibal's work?'

'This isn't Hannibal. I know this isn't his work.' He could feel both their eyes burning into him now. 'If anyone is confused in this case, it's Jack. You're so blinded by trying to catch the Ripper, you're ignoring all evidence that suggests there's another killer out there. One that is determined to have the entire bureau convinced he's the Chesapeake Ripper, and willing to go as far as directly contacting The Tattler to spread his story.'

Jack paused for a moment, allowing his mind to tick over everything he'd just heard, before saying slowly, 'Are you saying this is a copycat killer, Will?'

'I'm saying it's the most likely theory.'

'Great.' He sighed, leaning back in his chair. 'The Chesapeake Ripper has a copycat. Exactly what I need right now.'

'What else?' Alana asked, as Jack remained silent, lost in his own thoughts. _She shouldn't have brought him in_.

'He admires the Ripper, has a great deal of respect. Probably thinks he understands him, maybe feels some sort of sick connection.'

'Why? What's he trying to achieve by copying him?' She watched as Graham sat down beside her once more, removing his glasses to rub his eyes tiredly. 'Is it as simple as merely wanting to be as good as him? Imitation being the greatest form of flattery?'

'No, it's more than that. I can feel it. I just can't…find it.' He shook his head, angry at himself. He should have been able to see the killer through the crimes, as he'd done so before. _It felt too close._ 'I'm going to need to take the file home with me. I need to study it.'

* * *

He drove home almost immediately after taking the file. He didn't even stop long enough to say goodbye to Alana, who watched his car leave the parking lot with a sad sigh. Throughout the journey home, Will kept casting glances at the file sat on the seat beside him, until eventually he pulled over angrily at the side of the road. He sat silently for a few seconds, trying to fight the overwhelming temptation to just throw the file out the window and keep driving, until he was as far away from the FBI, and Jack Crawford, and this Chesapeake copycat as possible. _But that would be impossible_. So with a few deep breaths, he restarted the engine and continued on the road.

He did make a stop as he was passing through a nearby town. The agent called into a supermarket, ignoring all the usual produce he brought, and instead filled three bags of fresh produce. Meat. Fish. Fruit. Vegetables. He also picked up spices and herbs. _Ingredients_. He was about to leave, when he decided he'd also pick up a bottle of wine. Something red and expensive sounding. He packed everything in the car carefully; making sure nothing would be damaged for the rest of the journey. It wouldn't be the produce Hannibal was used to cooking with, but it would be something. Will smiled as he thought about it, and then caught himself. _Making a serial killer, and the FBI's most wanted man, happy should not make him so pleased_. But that thought merely made him laugh.

* * *

Hannibal watched the car pull up outside, from the kitchen window with a certain degree of surprise. He hadn't expected Will back so soon, or even back at all. He may have offered to do a psychological profile, but in reality he was preparing himself for a phone call from Will letting him know that he'd worked out who the killer was, and the FBI had flown him out there to catch him. It had happened so soon before.

Hannibal was even more surprised as Will began taking large, paper bags from the car, rather than merely the FBI case file, trying to lean them against his hip so he could carry as many as possible inside. The doctor continued to watch as he staggered to the door, supporting both bags, before putting one down to fumble with the door handle, which Hannibal opened anyway for him.

'You left the bureau early, if you even went at all,' he commented as Will hoisted both bags onto a kitchen surface. 'What have you brought?'

'I went to the bureau. There's just only so much of Jack Crawford explaining why I'm wrong that I can take in a day without screaming,' Will replied flatly, though Hannibal could sense the tension behind his tone. 'And food. I brought food. For you, actually. So, it would be decent of you to help me with it, if that's not too much trouble.'

He didn't think he would, but Hannibal nodded graciously and fetched the remaining bag and the case file from the front seat. He smirked as he saw the wine, clearly amused by the lack of knowledge Will demonstrated in its purchase. The rest of the produce seemed to genuinely please him, however, which made Will glad to see. They unpacked it all together in silence, the agent noting Lecter's darting glance between the case file on the side and the ingredients in his hands, as if trying to decide which pleased him more.

Lecter broke the silence first. 'Jack thinks you're wrong?'

'He's convinced the crimes are the work of the Chesapeake Ripper, despite all the evidence telling him otherwise.'

'What about Dr Bloom? What does she say?'

Will sighed, leaning against the counter behind him as he took a few breaths. 'Alana doesn't want to think it's the Ripper. I thought after our last few conversations, I'd completely eradicated the thought from her mind, but now she seems to think I'm in denial. She brought the idea of a copycat, but she's not entirely convinced. It's not a solid enough theory for her yet.'

'Of course it isn't. Alana is a psychologist, she will trust only what she can feel and study. You need to make your theory more real for her. Give her a profile she can pick to pieces, and then she'll know it's real.'

'We need to give her a profile.' Will turned his head slightly to look Hannibal directly in the eyes, seeing himself reflected back in the reddish glow. 'You were right earlier, about helping out on the case. I can't get into this killer's head. I try but I can't. All I see is Abigail Hobbs, and then the only killer I feel is you. And I know you didn't do this but…'

'Someone wants to make it look like I did.' Lecter nodded, also leaning back against the counter to be next to Will. 'I want to help you on this case, Will. I told you I will. I see you brought the file back, I'll read it, and I can help you from there. I'm grateful; I know what you're risking by asking me for help.'

'I'm going to take the dogs out. Read it while I'm gone.' It sounded more abrupt than he meant it, but Hannibal listened all the same.

* * *

Hannibal skimmed the file as he prepared dinner, with most of his attention being directed to the elaborate dish he was making rather than the FBI work. In defense, he was surprised by how little information the bureau seemed to have gathered, considering it was an investigation into two high profile homicides. He was also surprised on how non-objective the information was; Will was not exaggerating when he said Jack Crawford had already decided upon a killer. The more he thought, however, about even the little notes that had been made, the more he realised he could easily help Will see this killer's face. And he could show him it was very different to his own.

* * *

'I wasn't expecting this, you know.' Will looked up from the table he'd been ushered to almost as soon as he'd walked in, as Hannibal carefully brought over two plates of food, placing them down slowly, as if not to disturb the arrangement of the meals. Already in front of the agent was a glass half full of the red wine he'd brought earlier, and a few mismatching candles that Hannibal must have found in a drawer somewhere. It was as close to the dinners Lecter used to serve at his house as he could possible recreate. _He missed home_, Will couldn't help but think.

'I know, but you provided me with the materials, how could I possibly refuse this performance for you?' He sat down opposite the FBI agent. 'And you needn't worry, I also read the file for you. I did not substitute my own enjoyment in the place of your work.'

'I'm grateful.' Will took a small mouthful of the meal, before nodding agreeably though saying nothing. After a few moments, he asked, 'What did you think of the file?'

'The information was sparse. I was expecting more detailed notes from the federal bureau.'

'There's still some of the stuff at the academy. Maps, and photos and stuff. I couldn't bring it all back,' he explained, before taking a sip of wine and pulling a slight grimace.

At the sight, Hannibal smiled. 'Your knowledge of wine needs improving, Will, if you're going to keep buying it. Otherwise you risk getting used to drinking bottles such as this, and then you won't appreciate the finer wines.'

'I don't think I'll ever be a big wine drinker. Requires too much psychology for my liking.'

'And you're struggling with psychology at the moment, aren't you? The psychology of this killer?' He leaned forward, resting both of his elbows on the table, ignoring the meal. 'I want you to tell me how you see this killer so far, Will. Anything you think you know about him. Or, alternately, anything you definitely know he isn't. Then, I'll tell you what I feel.'

'Why?'

'Because I think you know everything you need to about this killer. I don't think it's him you're struggling with. I think it's yourself. You cannot look past your last case in order to see this one clearly. I think once you start voicing what you believe, you'll realise you don't need my help at all.'

'Nice to know one of us has faith in me.' He was mocking, but there was a hint of something real behind his words. Will leaned back as he thought for a moment, as though he needed to run both crimes over in his mind before he could speak definitely. 'What I know about the killer so far?'

'Or the victims. Or even the crimes themselves.'

'The second victim was depressed. Or she had been depressed.' He couldn't shake the thought of all the canvases with their cheap, phony messages on them dotted around her house. 'She had these sad quotes hung around her house. The ones that are supposed to look inspirational, but merely look desperate.'

'The first victim had anti-depressants in her bloodstream.'

'He's picking them up at some sort of counselling session, I think.' Will frowned, like he was pained by the thought that had occurred to him. 'He's not their psychiatrist, or counsellor. I think he's pretending to be a patient, attending various meetings to meet victims.'

'So, he definitely knew both victims, and now we know where.' Hannibal gave a slight smile, trying to encourage Will further. 'How well?'

'Quite well. When he killed Ms Leeds, the second victim, he was her guest, I think. She invited him over, she was definitely expecting him. She also didn't think it was strange he brought a bottle of wine round, so they were close friends. Maybe she even thought of him as a romantic partner, he knew where the bedroom was.'

'So he was a frequent guest? Do you think he was also a sexual partner of the first victim?'

'No, I don't think he was a sexual partner of either woman.' Will sighed. 'Romantic, but not sexual. I think he may have sexual problems.'

'Hence the rape?'

'Yes. He might suffer from something that dampens his sexual ability, or something he's embarrassed about. Size. Awkward technique. Premature ejaculation. I don't know. But, I don't think he'd have been capable of any form of sexual activity with either of those women while they were alive and fully conscious.'

'Or he's gay?' Hannibal suggested, almost innocently, as though the thought had only just crossed his mind. Will looked up from the table. 'You said it yourself, you don't think he could have had sex with either woman alive, could he be gay?'

'He's homophobic, probably grew up with parents or guardians who disagreed with it. From a young age, he learnt to hate himself for it. So he's never had a sexual relationship with a man. But, he can't bring himself to have a sexual relationship with a woman either. Or not a living woman, anyway.'

'He probably feels that every form of sexual relation he has with a woman makes him less homosexual, no matter what that is.'

'So he engages the victims in the beginning of a romantic relationship, can't bring himself to make it sexual while they're alive, so kills and rapes them?'

'He scars the faces, hides any form of distinguishable feature.'

'Makes them less female.'

'Makes them less human. He's a killer, and a rapist, but he has to de-humanise his victims before he can truly savage them.'

Will shook his head, massaging his temple with his hand as he did so. 'Then, where does the Chesapeake Ripper come into all of this? Is the killer copying the Ripper, or is his own killing style just eerily similar?'

'What do you think of the organ removal?'

'He removes the heart. Almost to perfection, actually. And then he sews the body up, as if to pretend nothing was ever touched. He even wipes the body down to remove all blood. They didn't even realise the first victim was missing her heart until they did the post-mortem.'

'So the emphasis is not merely on the removal of the heart. He's not trying to copy the Ripper's style of killing. If he was, he'd have left the chest wide open, to make the organ removal the first thing the FBI would notice.'

'Then what?'

'Many older belief systems held the similar belief that the consumption of animal flesh, especially that of the heart, would transform the consumer into something more than merely human.'

'He's removing their hearts to eat them, and be transformed?' Will asked, frowning, obviously lost in the doctor's thought process. 'So he's not copying the Chesapeake Ripper, he wants to become the Chesapeake Ripper, is that it? And he thinks by killing and eating parts of these women, he will be able to become him?'

'Quite simply, yes.'

'The Chesapeake Ripper killed three times each session though, before remaining inactive for months. This killer's only killed twice.'

'This killer is conflicted. He admires the Ripper, probably to an obsessive level that in his delusional state he believes to be love. He also hates himself. He wants to be someone different than the man he is. However, while he had the Ripper to focus on, he didn't care about the feelings he had towards himself. Now, the Ripper is out of the media's focus and all of his attention rests solely on his own shortcomings.'

'So he's becoming the Ripper to replace his own identity?'

'But, there can only be one Chesapeake Ripper, and the more he loses himself in his killings, the more he believes that one killer to be him.'

'He needs to kill the real Ripper.' Will suddenly realised exactly where Hannibal was going in his thinking. As he did so, he felt his heart drop, his voice going flat. 'The third copycat victim is going to be you. These other two killings were as much for the FBI as for the real Ripper, trying to lure him out to be killed. He contacted Freddie Lounds as much for her questionable methods of investigation, as for the sure knowledge the Ripper would see The Tattler.'

Lecter nodded slowly, solemn. 'Exactly.'

* * *

It was late evening when Alana Bloom received a phone call on her mobile, as she sat alone in the FBI building. Jack had left almost immediately after Will that afternoon, citing something about an appointment somewhere, and how it was useless calling him in when Will Graham was being so uncooperative anyway. She'd stopped listening after a while, trying to calm herself before she screamed at them all that this case was about more than just their egos, and that real people were dying. From then, she'd just sat staring blankly out of the window, with occasional breaks for coffee. The ringing of the phone was the first real sound, one not separated from her by a sheet of glass, that she'd heard in hours.

'Hello?' She answered the call quickly, not even checking the caller ID.

'Alana? It's Will.'

'Oh.' She was surprised, words escaping her for a few moments. She hadn't been expecting to hear from Will for days, in honesty. 'I trust you're phoning to apologise for vanishing earlier?'

'I'm sorry, I really am. This case is just difficult, and I didn't want to have to stay any longer around Jack than was necessary.'

'He might be right, Will, this could still be Lecter. Maybe you ruled it out too easily…'

'It's not. I think I've got a profile for him, Alana. I can feel this killer now, I've got in his head.'

She could sense his excitement over the phone. _Or his fear_. 'Will, I don't want you in this killer's head. I don't want you getting too close.'

'I'm not going to.' He knew she wasn't going to like what he needed to say. 'Alana, this is a copycat killer. But, he's more than that. He's trying to become the Chesapeake Ripper.'

'Lecter always killed in threes, we've only got two bodies. Do we need to be looking out for another victim, Will?'

'Hannibal Lecter will be the third victim, or at least that's the killer's intention. He can't be the Chesapeake Ripper if the real one still exists. The last two kills was him trying to lure Lecter out.'

'So, unless Lecter does reappear, he'll stop killing?'

'Or he'll get sick of waiting, and just start his next batch of kills. We can't leave him and hope this will all go away. We need to lure out the copycat.'

'No, Will,' she replied bluntly, shaking her head angrily, as though he would be able to sense that anger through the phone. 'The last time the FBI tried to lure out a killer, Jack Crawford ended up with Miriam Lass' arm being waved about his head. We're not doing that again.'

'Last time, we tried to lure out the Ripper, unaware it was actually Lecter, who knew exactly of our intentions. And he was clever. This time, it's just the copycat. He's nowhere near as intelligent, and he doesn't have ties to the FBI.'

She sighed. 'What did you want to do?'

'I want to do a story with Freddie Lounds. Feed her false information. Provoke him. If we can get him angry, we can catch him. Otherwise he might just kill Lecter, if he appears, and then disappear for two years just like the Ripper did.'

_He had a good point_. Shit. She hated having to admit that, even if it was just to herself. 'And you think this will work?'

'I think it's currently our best hope.'

* * *

It was a cold evening, two days after Alana and Will's conversation, though that was unknown to Cain Wesson, when he caught sight of The Tattler on a news stand as he was on his walk home from a group support session he'd booked onto. The news vendor was stacking the papers for the following day, piling stacks of each national paper into each tiny, allocated slot. One of the copies of The Tattler fell from the stand, landing in a mucky puddle of water, soaking the corner of it through. The vendor swore loudly and bent to fetch it, before finding someone else had picked it up first.

'Can I take this?' The man holding the wet paper asked, a thick scarf around his neck muffling his voice slightly.

'It's not for sale yet, I can't give it to you.'

'You can't sell it, it's a wreck.' The damp was spreading from the corner, blurring the ink until the top half of the front page was unreadable. 'I'll pay for it.'

The vendor nodded reluctantly. 'Fine. If you pay, you can take it.'

Cain smiled, fumbling in his pocket until he found the correct change, and handed it across in a gloved hand. He took the paper, flicking through it as he walked until he found a headline that stopped him dead.

'Copycat killer exclusive.' He read aloud, feeling his heart thudding in his chest as he continued to read, his eyes cruelly pulling out the harshest phrases in the double page spread. _Misogynist…Rapist…Sexual shortcomings_. No. No. _Obsessed with the Chesapeake Ripper_. No, this wasn't right. Next to the article, at the very top, was a small image of a bearded man, thick, black glasses on his tired face. 'Article written by Freddie Lounds, with exclusive interview with FBI Special agent Will Graham.' He'd read his name before, in some of Freddie Lounds' older articles, some relating to the Minnesota Shrike, more often in connection with Hannibal Lecter. _The Groom of Frankenstein_. Nothing for over six months though, he'd assumed he'd quit the FBI. _Clearly not_. He smiled cruelly as he continued to stare at the picture, the anger in his stomach boiling. 'Well, Will Graham, what shall we do with you?'


End file.
